Fire in the North
by Marshal1
Summary: An Irish priest sails north in search of a land that's fallen into legend, fleeing the violence that plagues his native shores. However, he'll find no solace from the bloodshed as he blunders into a saga worthy of the Viking world. But in between volatile Vikings, a King with dreams of conquest and a hero who rides a dragon into battle; will he be able to live to tell the tale...
1. Chapter 1: New Horizons

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own How to Train Your Dragon! _

**Chapter One**

**New Horizons**

High above the rolling swell of the deep seas, hovering between the shifting expanse and the dark clouds that hid the swathing realms of the Gods far beyond the mortal gaze on Midgard, a solitary gull cast an opportunist eye over the landscape. He was a prideful beast, the gleam of his feathers shining out his prime whilst his beak was long and sharp. Many knew him as a Prince of his feathery kind, and he was a rogue of the most devilish variety; from his haughty smirk to those thieving eyes that stressed his veteran mastery over his life-long trade. His eyes, darting from the rhythms of the green seas beneath him to the distant horizon of thunderous grey, saw an opportunity to advance his life with every glance. This was familiar territory. He knew that the vast waters below masked fleets of bright and brimming fish for him to guzzle to excess. The scaling islands of rocky shards protruding from the deep like the flailing arms of drowning men ironically offered this Prince of Thieves a remote shelter from the storms that raged so often in this frontier of the known world.

Those piercing eyes brightened immediately when he spotted what struggled through the colossal waves that dwarfed it; a lonely man ship scathing through the waves like a peculiar shaped fin. If the gull could laugh he would to a jovial extent, instead settling for a raucous shriek to which ever supreme oddity cast him this favourable opportunity. There was no more pleasurable pastime than stealing from such creatures, the bird thought smugly, even as it angled its wings and travelled on the streams of heavy winds, swirling down for a closer inspection of this most suitable of prey. For a few moments he merely flew past overhead, his mind pinpointing the display and narrowing when he scented an easy take. Discerning his target he flew by one last time, before with astonishing speed, he swung back around and took the wind in his feathers like an arrow fired from a bow. He swooped in with his webbed talons to clasp at that beautiful silver fish, foreign to his usual hunting grounds and a delicacy that he had not tasted for many seasons. An accompanying screech of victory sounded from his gullet, belting out his triumph as those networked talons closed on its shiny find, mighty wings already expanding to beat a hasty retreat in the manner of a true master of his craft.

Then it hit him; something hard, blunt and undoubtedly metallic. His brain, still bubbling with satisfied excitement at this rare offering, was momentarily stunned into nothingness. Then came the pain as he toppled sideways, away from that glorious prize and out towards those grasping, foaming, watery clutches as the waves erupted up to swallow him.

'Git away with yuh ye robbing midge!' came the gruff croak of a warning voice, hardened by salty air to a weathered edge. The feathered Princeling had heard such dulcet tones before and knew when he was beaten, for it hinted at a violent retribution for his thievery that he had no intention of receiving. Displaying the cowardice that his pompous nature often ignored, he scooted off towards the looming clouds, demoralised by his failure and nursing a sharp sting in one wing. Another wound to rest carefully in a remote rocky outcrop somewhere in distance. However, as he swirled back upwards, his eyes closed and with a fruitful squeeze he let out his own favourite retribution to those that crossed his path. That'll teach them, the bird thought smugly, as he floated away; a shame though, that such an alluring prize was to be wasted on those fire-worms that lay over the horizon, waiting in the shadowy edges of the world; such a waste.

Moments later, and with a splatter that would have made the gull immensely satisfied, his farewell gift landed in an oozing splodge on the habited shoulder of a young White Christ priest.

'Perfect…just what I needed,' muttered Brendan O'Neill sarcastically. He turned to scowl moodily out towards the horizon from his position at the ships fore-stern just as a wave reared up over the low, sleek hull and drenched the poor soul from straw haired locks to his wool wrapped sandals. Shaking and spluttering he remerged from the onslaught, disappointing those onlookers who had noticed his misfortune and were hastily smothering smirks, by merely sighing dejectedly and wrapping shivering arms about his broad frame. This was a heavy contrast to the petrified figure who had shrieked like a new born lamb when the frothy mouths of the Sea Lord Njord had risen to show his thunderous and deadly wrath during a storm they had survived a couple of days into the voyage. His fellow companions, all old sea dogs, had simply gone about their business heedless of the swelling seas and belted out their disdain for this weak and pitiful Gael, but even he had slowly grown accustomed to the harshness of the weather as they travelled ever further northwards along the Whale Road.

Brendan, despite his cool reaction to the impromptu bath and alert to the mirth of those nearest him, was freezing his chaste bollocks off. It was ice cold, a factor that coincided with the drop in temperature as they ventured further north into the depths of an ocean barely explored by the poor man's native people. Only a few, lonely and usually derided folk had ever took to the sea's and sailed into the unknown far to the north. They passed the mountainous isles of the Painted Ones to the lands beyond, where the few that survived brought back tales of expansive walls, as high as those in Biblical times, made entirely of shifting ice and where fire flowed like rivers from underground caverns that spewed smoke far into the sky. This was the home of mystical creatures and hardened folk, pushed to the extreme outskirts of the world by necessity to scrape out what daring living they could.

Now, drenched from straw coloured hair to the hem of his habit, the priest breathed out a sigh and once again glanced out into the distance. There was still no sign of land. It had been days since they ventured into the shelter of a coastal inlet, and even longer since they had harboured in anything that could be considered a secure port. Bending down to pick up a mercifully dry cloak, he wrapped it around his shoulders to ward off the biting sea breeze. As he did, he turned a thoughtful yet wary eye to the companions who were busy about their usual duties. Some sowed battered scraps of hardened sails ripped by ravaging weather, whilst others toyed with recently procured goods or sharpened weapons grown rusty in the salty air. As a man who lived out his childhood in one of the native booming coastal long-ports before moving to a coastal monastery in his youth, he was used to such mundane activities. No, what made him cast a thoughtful eye on such sights was that these people were veteran sailors, explorers, traders and warriors, or standard Viking's in other words. They also all happened to be women.

Brendan was an educated man, so had heard tales of such female-centric tribes on the outskirts of the civilised world, where the women it was said had just a single breast, embraced their own sex in procreation and wielded swords as well as any man. Brendan crossed himself at the mere thought of such heretical concepts, even as he felt an unwanted flutter of vibrant celebrations in a particular area. As unrealistically fantastical as these peoples were, they were said to live way to the south and east, past even the glories of Rome and Jerusalem. He had not expected to find them, fully equipped in weaponry, breasts and manning a large draakker harboured in Dubh-linn's booming wharf. A rare and unfamiliar sight at the best of times, and that was without adding their fiery young heiress to the equation.

'Priest,' a loud shriek came from the rudder end of the ship, and Brendan rolled his eyes. Speak of the devil and all his titillating temptations, he thought wryly as he turned towards the sound to find a short figure bearing down on him. Long golden hair blew wildly about her, framing the sharp and alluring facial features whilst those fierce opal eyes blazed when they focused upon him, her wily yet undeniably strong arms finding their way to the sides of her curvaceous body and clenched menacingly. If Brendan hadn't been taller than most men he might have been visibly shaken by her furious demeanour. But after days of being stuck on this solitary sea-bucket, battling through ever worsening weather whilst dealing with more mood swings than a Byzantine harem, he had grown strangely accustomed to it. So much so, that as she meandered her way towards him, he felt a smile edging his lips.

'Greetings Dear,' he replied cheerily, inwardly grinning as her face flushed with incredulous anger, forcing those closest to quickly smother grins, failing to hide either their mirth or their fondness for this peculiar follower of the White Christ, who had managed to stumble endearingly into their harsh hearts. If Brendan wasn't undoubtedly convinced that these woman, the products of the devil and all his daemonic spawn, were cursed to burn in the filthy bowls of hell for all entirety and capable of such explicit sins as riding a man for so long and hard that the poor fellow died from his exhaustion in front of this gleeful horde of harpies; he might have warmed to their affection. But sadly he wasn't; even his developed mind stunted by the harsh and narrow minded misogynist views of his old monastery's ruling father, who had been so archaically fond of stating that you could never trust something as sinfully wretched as a woman. Brendan grimaced at the memories, even as his mind registered ironically that you couldn't trust that man either, especially when he got predatory around the young novices. Shuddering he realised that he'd lost his train of thought, turning his attention to the most deranged harpy of them all, whose scowl would have shrunk a lesser man's breeches,

'Watch what you say to me monk,' she growled and prodded a challenging finger into his chest to reinforce the threat. It was such a ludicrous addition that Brendan couldn't hide a chuckle, or shut his mouth,

'Or what, most feared of the Sea-Wolves, you'll slay me here with a such a fearful weapon as a pointed finger…ouch!' he finished with a surprised whine as her fist, heavily adorned with rings she'd robbed rather than gained from the keen affection of, in Brendan's view, an idiotic admirer, struck him in the arm with a strength he was by now unfortunately accustomed too. Scowling, he rubbed his bruised limb,

'Was that really necessary?' he inquired moodily, irritated by the young woman's haughty smirk. He didn't know quite what it was, but that smirk irked him far more than any other irritation he'd encountered in his short life.

'Not really…but it made me feel better,'

'Oh may the Lord be thankful!' he said aloud, throwing up his hands, 'so what have I done to deserve your ire now; stood in the way perhaps? Misplaced something of importance? Breathed?' The young woman, annoyed by the priest just as much as he was by her, resumed her scowling,

'You're mouthy for a White Christ holy man?'

'And how many Christian priests have blessed you with their time?' She simply grinned proudly in response,

'Not many, it's hard to talk with a sword in your throat!' There it was, the not so subtle warning. Brendan rolled his eyes, used to the casual threat of death by one means or another that she often threw his way. At first, it was almost enough for him to piss his breeches; especially after a few mishaps early in their venture where he displayed the same lacklustre prowess at seamanship as a Viking would at making daisy chains. She had railed, screamed, struck and even on one occasion stamped a foot (not that she'd ever admit it), but she hadn't tried to kill him yet. She'd been close, but whatever semblance of common sense underneath that wild array of golden hair had kept those bladed swords scabbarded. He was simply worth too much, for she knew very well that there was a hoard of silver and trinkets stored secretly away, a promise that he had sworn to grant her for his safe passage. She would be more foolish than she looked to willingly lose that trophy. There was also an oath involved, and even though she might be a hellion darker than the worst nightmarish creatures that roamed the shadows of his homeland, Brendan knew she was no breaker of oaths. It was his greatest strength, this ability to read people like the pages of one of the vibrant tomes he had pored over at his monastery; and a talent that had served him well in the past.

'I even bit one out you know,' she said with another hellish grin, and Brendan couldn't help the snort of amusement at her blatant invention, for once choosing to ignore the grisly context. That was before he glanced down to find her smiling proudly, and his expression immediately grimaced,

'Really?'

'Just ask anyone, I'm quite famous for it,' she shrugged, and Brendan remembered to file this little nugget of brutality away to probe into later. Even so, he still crossed himself to ward off the evil of her words,

'Why am I not surprised,' He mumbled, but the little woman ignored this, choosing to answer his original question.

'Where making landfall in a day or two,' she caught his look relief and fought down the satisfying urge to hit him, 'and not one of those small island inlets that your so fond of, but a booming harbour brimming fit to burst. It'll be good trade, and a chance to catch up with old friends. It'll be home.' She seemed to revel in anticipation, and Brendan felt a glimmer of pity for her. From what snippets of information he had garnered from passing gossip, it had been a long, hard season for these Vikings, with little success or chance to gain any fruitful treasures. Too many people had learned a violent lesson from past raids and erected large walls to protect their settlements, and if there was one thing these northern wolves hated it was to be slowed to a halt. They were fast, ill fitted for siege warfare; striking when least expected and disappearing off again into the safety of a multitude of watery expanses as quickly they had come. It was the Viking way. But this season had been difficult, and was the reason that this boastful and livid woman had been forced to make harbour in Dubh-linn's extensive long-port, bruised and in dire need of supplies. Fortunately for this sea-captain, a blundering but richly endowed priest had been in the vicinity, and the silver he bargained with was a small but bitter reward for a season filled with missed opportunities and lost companions.

'So,' Brendan piped up, noticing her morose stance and swiftly realising that this current brooding would not bode well for him later if he again showed his short-comings when handling a ship, 'this place we're heading, your homeland; tell me about it?' She looked at him, seeing his inquiry for what it was and her expression lightened. Whether that was because she generally appreciated his thoughtful diversion or because she had the chance to talk about her home he couldn't be sure.

'I forgot you didn't have a clue about where we're heading.' Brendan blinked, was that a smile edging her lips or was he hallucinating. Surely he had to be seeing things. The woman before him never smiled, well, unless she was killing somebody. 'Who bargains their way onto a ship full of Viking women without actually knowing where they were going!'

'That's me, so brave I'd put any man to shame, even a Viking,' he smiled, puffing out his chest pompously. The young heiress gave a snort of amused disdain, looking him up and down with an experienced eye,

'Now let's not get ahead of ourselves, one sea-voyage doesn't make you a Viking; I could knock you down with just my little finger Irishman.' Brendan couldn't help but agree. He was regretfully limited when it came to fighting, even given his broad build, especially in the brawling manner that this lady seemed to favour. The young holy man gave her a humble smile,

'Well instead of undermining any confidence I had in my martial prowess,' he allowed, 'weren't you expanding on my naïve knowledge of the outer world?'

'We'd be here until nightfall and beyond then, but I won't keep you in suspense,' she breathed out a sigh of longing and her eyes gained a misted look as she peered out over the prow. She pointed a finger towards the distant grey haze, 'you see that distant cloud spiralling up into the sky; no, not that one you idiot, that's just a normal one; that one there, a thin trail and darker than the other ones. That's not a cloud, but pungent smoke and poisonous fumes bellowing out of the Lava-Louts mouth; home of the fire stone, where rivers of flame and molten rocks flow into the steaming seas about it. Not far north-east of there lies Hysteria Island, almost inaccessible because of its towering cliffs that only the bravest dare to scale…'

'Have you?'

'Twice,' she grinned, 'Just on the other side of the roaring straits of the Wrath of Thor is Mount Villainy, where no one lives; beyond that the Inner Isles of the Sullen Sea, and even further north lie the icy territories where islands move and shift with the currents and Frost Giants dwell in abundance. There are many similar places; seas and islands, gifted by the Gods with minds and personalities of their own; some that feed on visitors, swallowing any who dare set foot on their sands; some haunted by the cold fallen and released by Hel herself to play tricks on the living. Many have yet to be discovered, lying in wait and hidden by blinding mist and fogs, ready to ambush any unfortunate shipmaster or adventurer that crosses them. This is my home, the Barbaric Archipelagos.'

Brendan was livid to admit it, but he was enraptured, caught in a spell of storytelling no one could expect this woman to possess. The Barbaric Archipelagos, such a place existed in the faded dreams of the Irish peoples. Brendan had heard the rare venturing seaman spreading tales of this mystical place at the corner of the world. But no one was ever foolish enough to admit they had been there personally, for it was rumoured that it was so inhospitable and violent that no one but God knew what dangers lurked in that dark and faraway place. What kind of a people would venture to a region where every aspect of nature was pitted against them? Glancing at the faces of the women about him, some grinning toothlessly at his spell-bound expression, others thinking fondly of this homeland as their leader's words reached every ear, he knew he didn't need to go far to find out. From their gnarled faces to the brutal joy they took in the simple things that everyday life offered, he could well believe it.

'But they are of no concern, for just north of that smoke lies the Isle of the Bog-Burglars, our tribe,' she continued, grinning widely now. Brendan had to wonder at the name. Either they were a group of marshy thieves or it was an unfortunate joke made by their rivals about their overpowering musk and ability to ride their men to an early grave that these women didn't quite understand. Judging by his own experiences, Brendan was firmly placing his hoard on the stench and violent sexual encounters. He crossed himself again, causing many of the listening women to roll their eyes, believing that the mere thought of their hardened homeland had upset his quaint, southern belly.

'We are the fiercest and most expansive of the Archipelagos tribes, feared further beyond our own seas than any one of our neighbours. The Bogs have always been unique, for my mother is chief as hers was before her and I shall be after. We don't rely on any man to protect us.' After his experiences on this voyage, Brendan could certainly believe that one.

'You said neighbours, so there are other tribes?'

'Many actually, scattered over the whole of the Archipelago's. There are some that a relevantly new and others that are so old they can trace lineage to the first explorers that settled these shores. We all have our identifiable features. Take the Bashem Oiks for example, everyone knows they have a dodgy obsession with the swine they farm, so much so that they can't slaughter one for the winter without causing a blood-feud with a local family.'

'Where did you hear that?'

'Don't have to hear it, just take one look at them when we reach port and you'll be thinking they've been fucking hog's too.' Brendan chuckled, even as he made the sign against the abnormal actions she was suggesting this pagan tribe practiced in their misty homes.

'So are the other tales my people tell to scare their children true?' She looked at him incredulously, another one of her expressions he had grown accustomed to.

'Of course,' she paused, giving him a suspicious look, 'actually that depends on what you've heard…'

'I think I'll save it for another time, or until I'm off this ship…less chance of you trying to drown me like you've promised so many times.' There was a rustle as sniggers spread around the surrounding Bogs, who could all imagine their fiery heiress doing just that to the outspoken priest. The young woman glared at him for a moment, before shrugging off his refusal to playfully stroke the hilt of a mean looking knife fastened at her belt.

'But drowning's so boring, and you never get any satisfaction out of it,' she turned to grin wickedly at him, 'There's a lot to be said for castration though!' Brendan's eyes immediately widened and his hand unconsciously shot down to shield that particular area from sight,

'Stay away from me.'

'Why?'

'I need them.'

'Not what I heard, I've heard they're pretty useless for White Christ Priests,'

'Lies, utter lies…'

'You better not be lying to me Irishman!'

'You better not try and stab me with that wee little knife then.'

'Is that a threat?'

'A threat, look at me…would I really be threatening you of all people?'

'Was that…a compliment?'

'Uh…you're welcome to think so.' She seemed to be more disgusted with the offhand praise than the idea of such a useless insect threatening her. Nevertheless she still advanced and pointed a finger at the unfortunate man, who shirked away from it.

'You better sleep with one eye open from now on little man,' Brendan spluttered his indignation at her suggestive tone,

'What a horrible, beastly pest you are.' There was an intake of breath as the Bog's eyes widened in horror. Each member of this female crew could count the fingers of one hand how many people had spoken in this manner to their volatile leader, and were pretty sure none had ever come out of it without an early grave. They stood in anticipation, expecting her to draw a knife as they had seen her do on so many occasions and plunge it into the poor soul standing in front of her. It would be a sad, bloody business, but they could expect nothing less from such an insult. It was what honour expected. For a moment it looked promising, for her hand twitched in the hilts direction. Her eyes widened, and Brendan felt the first tinge of nervous sweat moisten his brow. So this was her limit, maybe that last barb was a step too far thinking back on it. Hindsight as the village elders used to say really is a wonderful thing Brendan you fool. Then the strangest thing happened. The Bogs would later claim that it was a sign of this strange Gael's favour with his White Christ God, or a demonstration of his holy magic; Brendan would honestly think it was the closest to one of God's miracles he would ever come to see, for after a moment's pause, the woman before him leant her head back and bellowed out a laugh. It was a mad, shrieking thing, and it scared the living shit out of the Irishman as the rest of the crew merely gaped at one another. They had witnessed this same woman once try and suck the eyes out of an enemy for less of an insult; a powerful magician he must be, for someone so useless at working an oar. The woman's eyes seemed to sparkle with glee as her high-pitched whine stilled,

'You're calling me a beastly pest?' she said incredulously,

'You're a Viking aren't you?'

'Aye and proud of it Irishman, but over that horizon we have proper pests!'

'Worse than a castrating, knife wielding Viking woman?'

'Try a fire breathing, Viking eating dragon…'

Silence, just a long stretching moment of silence in which the only sound was the grumbling sea beneath them, the scathing sea-breeze and a very noticeable gulp from Brendan.

'A dragon…' he squeaked,

'Aye, and not just _a_ dragon, but whole hordes of the fire belching lizards; so many that they darken the skies like clouds of teeth with razor claws; they have always been the one enemy all the tribes would willingly unite against.' She paused for what Brendan took as dramatic effect, and it gave him enough time to sort through his muddled mind. Dragons; he knew from the old legends that they existed in the dark places of the world back in ancient times when heroes and Gods walked the land. But that was many ages ago, and he had taken to the belief that this was a creature that had died out since that mythical era. Not that he didn't believe in the existence of the fairy folk; every Irishman and his mother believed that those strange and magical people lived hidden behind Fae shrouds, veiled from sight in vast forests and mountainous spines. But to find that they still lived in this remote corner of the world was both a worry and a reward. A worry because he was heading straight in that direction and his combat skills were a lauded amusement for anyone who had the faintest skill to wield a blade. A reward because he knew that the mission assigned to him by his holy father was tantalisingly nearer to completion.

'Sounds like bloodthirsty work, I suppose that all Viking's are bred with this desire to slay a dragon?' There was a pause, with some women nodding in agreement and others glancing questioningly at their leader, as if seeking her approval to speak. Only one seemed brave enough to answer,

'Aye that was the way of things,' the rumbling vocal chords of Inga Idle-Tongue, a woman who tended to speak more with looks than words, so much so that Brendan was sure this was possibly the first time he had heard her speak. He got the impression that it was wise choice to listen when he heard that distinct northern brogue, 'for many a generation we gave as good as we got; until now, with the coming of the Riders.' A stagnant pause filled the atmosphere,

'Riders?' probed Brendan, and Idle-Tongue nodded her confirmation,

'Vikings who have given up the old ways to ally themselves with our enemies,' she spat to show her opinion of such an idea, gently stroking the Pagan hammer charm laced around her neck, 'Changed a great many things have the Riders of Berk.'

'Berk?'

'Berk,' commented Dalla Dagger-Happy, looking up from her task repairing a set of skin sleeping bags, 'The oldest of the Tribes, and most prestigious some say.' There was a loud outcry of complaint at this, which Dalla promptly shrugged off to continue, 'They've been the most outspoken about their hatred of the dragons, as those slimy reptiles favoured raiding Berk more than any other island. It was personal. Last we heard from that way though, things were a lot different…'

'Very different,' nodded Gro Skeggox, pausing mid-stroke as she ran a whetstone over the bearded blade of the axe that gave her such a name. She spat over the vessels side, a clear sign of what she thought of the transition this Berk had gone through. However, Brendan was an observant man, and noted that Gro, as fearsome a creature as the axe she tended so lovingly, only did this when sure that it would go unseen by her captain. Interesting; there is an undercurrent of antagonism here, and he surprised himself at the sudden spark of apprehension he felt for this woman he had so often butted heads with. Now that was a worrying development, and he crossed himself at the mere hint of sin in it. Just to be safe.

'Aye, that's true,' piped up Halldora Keen-eye with a shout from the long-ship's stern, where she deftly controlled the rudder with an easy grace and experienced hand. Brendan liked Halldora because she was kind and warm-hearted, a rarity for any Viking he was sure. She often greeted him more jovially than any other and had even attempted to cover for his uselessness during this long voyage north. Her uncanny ability at sea gave her some hefty weight in this crew. Being one of the younger women on the vessel, she was usually a calming influence when her leader's temper was directed at him. Even now she had a mischievous smile on her lips as she sent him a wink, 'But I could take any of those differences for one night with a certain young man…'

This was followed by a bellow of opposing emotions, some shaking their heads vigorously whilst others shockingly shared wistful glances with one another at the mere dream of it. Their leader, he noted, was attempting to hide a smile behind a grim mask, but wasn't quite succeeding.

'That whelp! You'd open your legs for anything you would...'

'Not so much a whelp anymore from the tales they tell of him…'

'The boy's not one of us; no Viking blood in that…'

'Hardly a boy nowadays, going on the saga they sing of his first battle...'

'That was a smoothed-tongued skald that sang those lies so…'

'Lies my arse, I'd give my left tit and a middle toe to be made saddle-sore by him…'

'Like your mother was by Lidskjalfr the Dwarf you mean.' So the bawdy comments continued to be thrown about the ship as the women argued and insulted each other with an ease Brendan still found astonishing. He took the distracting respite to observe the young woman who had not moved from her position next to him. She turned to meet his gaze and shrugged when he gestured at her bickering crew,

'They can get like this on a long voyage, with no men around apart from a man who won't and a corpse who can't,' before she grinned at him again, 'or should I let some have their way with you like they originally requested?'

'I hope not,' replied Brendan just as swiftly, summoning a grimace and eying the squabbling mass with derision. After a moment he voiced the nibbling question hissing in the back of his mind, 'what kind of a man could split their opinion like this?' The grin widened in return,

'He's one of a kind, a Viking more unique than you could ever imagine; so clever he could play games the equal of Loki; so swift he could outpace Odin astride eight-legged Sleipnir and who wields more power than even mighty Thor.' Brendan gulped and breathed a silent prayer for the civilised world. If what she said was true, and the Viking's indeed had such a man to lead them then he could see only a bleak, bloody future for his homeland and the other unfortunate kingdom's across the sea. He also registered that her words silenced the brooding crew.

'Who is this man?' He tried to hide the stutter in his voice, but knew that his tongue had utterly betrayed him. No one seemed to notice.

'He can fly people say, using magic to cloak and shroud him in the shadows so he may go unnoticed. Many men are wary of him; some even fear him. There are tales told of how he defeated a dragon, The Red Death, as large as an island and a beast that could spew a storm of flame, when he was just a child and without wielding a single weapon…' Now this must be pure fantasy he thought, but the stony gaze of the other women surrounding him made his protests splutter to a premature close, 'He has many given names, the Rider, Dragon-Speaker, Flame-Fell, but those of our islands call him by his birth name.'

'Which is?'

'Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, heir to Berk Tribe.' Stillness in an atmosphere as chilly as any he had ever known, and on a ship sailing the hazardous routes along the Whale Road, it was certainly a miraculous occurrence. All this in a blink, before he opened his mouth and proceeded to stun the entire gathering,

'Ah, now I have heard of him.' They all gaped, from Kadlin Harbour-Keg's toothless maw, the wistful destination of many men's dreams, to Helldora stood at the rudder-tiller, for once her sunny disposition not focused on the flowing seas beneath her but on this strange Irishman. Even their leader's eyes had widened at the extent of this irritating Priests knowledge. It didn't take long for her eyes to narrow, as if by showing no surprise at hearing this name he had somehow insulted her.

'Tell me how a small, useless lump of a White Christ scum follower like you has heard of him?' Brendan scowled at her indignantly, immediately angered at her insult to his religious beliefs, and secondly her insinuation that he had somehow insulted her. This one changed moods swifter than his former holy father when faced with a pretty serving boy. He struggled to fight the rage down, even though he almost spat the next words out,

'I listen! I may be no worth at the oar of one of your Viking buckets, but I have my uses. I observe people, watch their moods and gather knowledge worthy to be recorded and passed on. The worlds not just made up of pointless, arrogant fools who think waving their swords about and shouting loudly means all should bow before me. Your homeland isn't the only place where legends are told or made.' Again he had brought about their speechlessness with his rare display of anger and foolhardy courage.

'Not many people have called me a fool and lived to weave a tale of it,' the young woman said coldly, and her crew exchanged glances amongst themselves and stiffened to attention. Better get ready for it, they knew that cold voice anywhere; she really was going to kill him this time. Brendan was currently having similar thoughts, but his anger was righteously justified and would not abate, as much as his more logical and wary mind was attempting to silence it.

'You call yourself a leader of warriors. No wonder you're such a brute, you keep killing off the clever ones.' A pause, then it came. As silent and precise as an arrow fired from a Welshman's bow, her bejewelled fist shot out and struck him to the ground, the encrypted rim of one of the rings tearing into his cheek to splatter a faint spray of blood across a nearby rowing bench. Brendan ended up in a heap by her feet. Sprawled across a collection of storage bundles, Brendan's head whirled and all thoughts seemed to have spiralled away with the sea breeze. However, through the murk and cascading flashes of light, he felt a shadowy presence lean over him, followed by a distinctly muffled voice whispering close to his ear.

'My name is Camicazi, Heir to the Bog Burglars, and if you say that to me one more time, no amount of silver hoards will be enough to stop me cutting off your bollocks and forcing them down your throat.' Call Brendan a fool, but he thought the voice sounded rather upset. His head pounding in pain and slick with the blood leaking from his face, he managed to spit through a small puddle that pooled in his mouth,

'He's not just famous on…your islands,' the figure paused and this time there was a fondness in the words that she offered him,

'I'm not surprised; you'll see why when we arrive at the Althing and enjoy our…brutish hospitality.' Brendan didn't really care to know what an Althing was, or whether he had the chance to meet this Hiccup there. He was quickly fading into unconsciousness, but even so his faithful mind still managed to offer a response in its sluggishness for his audience to enjoy,

'Oh joy…Wake me up when we get there dear.'


	2. Chapter 2: In the Den of Wolves

**Chapter Two**

**In the Den of Wolves**

_A hall was burning. Screams tore through the night as the shadows descended from the trees, flaming torches sending a distorted light flickering over the terrible scene. Swords were drawn; axes raised and spear heads flashed, thirsty for blood. They were warriors; wolves amongst sheep. No quarter was given; none who fled the blazing beacon of the hall escaped. Some tried to defend their families, and were hacked apart for their defiance. Amidst the screams of the slaughtered are fair voice called,_

_ 'Father please, you must take him…'_

_ 'But what of you my child…'_

_ 'There's no time, his brothers are here. They howl for his blood. Hide him Father, please hide him from them…' Spectral figures leapt from the flames, blades shining bright. A pair of eyes looked down, locking on his own and resonating with love, fear and grief as the wolves bade for her death,_

_ 'Go with God Brendan…'_

'Priest!' The shout wrenched Brendan from his nightmare. He blinked uncomfortably as a wave of light blinded his focus, momentarily stunning him. Lifting chaffed hands he rubbed at his wind bitten eyes and stared blearily up to discover a shadowy figure looming over him, grinning widely.

'On your feet Irishman,' she said, prodding him with a booted foot, 'we've arrived.'

'Arrived where?' he inquired sleepily, his hand reaching up to stifle a yawn. He could smell the salt hovering thickly in the sea air and could hear the distant cry of gulls, but they failed to pull him from his slumber as he began to drift back in to the realm of dreams. He nestled back into the threadbare cloak he'd wrapped around his body to ward off the icy chill of the far north, grasping at the fleeting vestiges of sleep and softly cursing the obtrusive nature of Vikings.

'Oi,' the voice called again. He ignored it; until a sudden torrent of fluid splashed his face. He emerged spluttering, sleep instantly forgotten. The salty scent was suddenly replaced by the putrid stench of piss. He sniffed at it, realising that it protruded from his dampened cloak. His face contorted in disgust and he instinctively gagged,

'You…you pissed on me?' he spluttered, choking in outrage. The pungent fumes were overpowering. He looked up to find Helldora laughing heartily at him,

'Not this time,' she grinned, wiping away tears of merriment and throwing aside an empty bone flask, 'that belonged to Thorhild Frenzy-Seeker. She mixes her urine with touchwood; once you've pounded it enough then you can use it to make fire, a unique way of harnessing it for those Viking's without access to a dragon. That was her last batch. She has powerful nostrils too; she won't be happy when she smells you.'

Brendan gaped at her explanation. Shuddering, he flung the soiled cloth aside and lurched to his feet. The ship rolled gently to the rhythm of the waves beneath, a softer current to the great rolling swathes he'd grown accustomed too. Stretching aching limbs, he spat into the sea before scowling at the chuckling woman beside him,

'I think I've swallowed some,' he frowned grimly. Smirking, the young Viking rustled in her cloak before presenting him with a strip of salted fish and a skin bag of rainwater. Brendan readily accepted, devouring the fish greedily and swilling the horrid taste away.

'So,' he grumbled, finishing his fleeting meal, 'before you decided to drown me in Thorhild's piss, what did you say again?'

'We're here.'

'Here where?' Helldora's flashed him a smile,

'Berk.' Brendan just stared at her. Then a small smile edged his lips. Finally their voyage was at an end. He felt the soothing wave of relief sweep through him.

The remainder of the voyage had past swiftly. They'd harboured in a small inlet fjord, nestled between swathing marshland and rocky pools. It had been an unpleasant stay, for those marshes had been infested by swarms of stinging flies. The Viking's had sailed on at first light, after discovering from a local fisherman that many ships had sought refuge on those beaches before journeying north towards Berk, where the Althing was rumoured to be held. From then on they had caught the surges of the Summer Current, and Brendan had marvelled at the natural beauty of the islands they sailed past. An island hidden amongst roving mists; another to the west, coated in swathes of forest and where the wind howled across the surrounding seas. Sharpened peaks sprouted from the water in their hundreds, surrounding high sea cliffs echoing the calls of gulls and the cries of lost sailors fallen foul to the merciless currents. To Brendan's relief they had survived these perils, negotiating the waves with a skilled grace and to the credit of the Bog's steadfast resolve.

It had been a voyage of wonder and discovery for Brendan, one that could even rival the exploits of his ancient namesake. Admittedly Brendan spent most of the time nursing a sore head and sporting a dazed expression, a painful reminder of the Viking heiress's fierce temper. He received no sympathy from his erstwhile companions, who all believed he'd been lucky to escape a worse fate and unanimously agreed that he'd deserved every inch of it. Brendan, when not enraptured by the haunting landscape, spent the remainder of the journey in a moody stupor, saying little and scowling at most. He pointedly avoided the perpetrator of his brooding angst, a mutual resolve as she returned his feelings, barely sparing a glance in the unfortunate Irishman's direction. Only once did she acknowledge his presence, pausing to laugh cruelly as he took up a place on the rowing bench. This had suitably antagonised him, prompting him to unleash a barbed jibe in her direction. However, he had been forced to reconsider when Helldora's hard elbow jabbed sharply into his ribs as the accompanying warning glare told him to leash his tongue. Brendan had sullenly followed her advice, ignoring the scornful look the young Bog-Heiress levelled him.

When they reached Berk they could go their separate ways. She would settle into the routine of a Viking heiress; to dispute the troubles faced by her people with others of her status. His resentment at Camicazi's actions still pulsed, and her irritating nature still grated on him; causing Brendan to spasm with an irrational anger he hadn't believed he could contain. In those rare moments it had taken all his willpower to resist the urge to throttle her at every opportunity, but sense had maintained control; either doubting he had the personality to kill another person or because he realised that Camicazi would murder him if he attempted it. Now it was over, and Brendan could move past such foreign emotions and venture into experiences previously unknown to him. As barbaric and bloodthirsty as these Viking's were, he was fascinated by their culture and he wished to explore their habits and customs in greater detail. Once he returned to his homeland he would write it all down in a chronicle to rival the annals of Ulster and Kells. He sighed wistfully; maybe one day, once his task here was complete.

He still stared blankly at Helldora's beaming face; the young Viking chuckled and slapped his shoulder, bringing Brendan out of his trance and leaving a dull ache for her efforts.

'You sleep deep Priest, now enjoy our hospitality; this is the first Althing called for generations. They'll be roaring fires roasting juicy meats, the finest mead and good company to sing bawdy songs and swap worthy tales with. It'll be quite the occasion…' her voice bristled with barely contained excitement. She sent him a departing wink before ambling to the mast to gather her bundled possessions. Brendan didn't notice her depart. Instead, he gaped into the distance, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he began to stumble towards the stern. His fellow seafarers were hard at work preparing the ship for port, but some noticed his expression as he passed, and smiled at his enthralled look, rolling their eyes at his behaviour. They couldn't blame him; they'd all reacted similarly as they rode the high swells of the Sullen Sea and first glimpsed the island whose very scenery embodied the Viking way of life. Let him enjoy this moment, they thought as the Isle of Berk loomed into view. Oblivious to the knowing looks that followed him, Brendan reached the stern and hoisted his broad frame up, clasping hold of the ships prow and gazing out at an island born from the most imaginative of dreams.

A tall mountain loomed over the surrounding sea, its weathered cliffs steep and cloaked by dense woodland. A great pinnacle towered into the sky as if reaching for the halls of the Viking Gods, laden with fallen snow. Raven Point he'd heard it called, an apt name for such a marvel. At the base of its tallest peak was a cove hewed from the rocky cliffs, and even from this distance he could make out the flickering sails of harboured ships docked at the island. Standing above them was a village brimming with life, stoutly built and carved to accommodate the slopes and rocky outcrops of the mountain. This was Berk, he thought with a smile, the oldest of the Archipelago tribes. He could almost sense the history of the place in the sea air; the toils and tribulations of its people. Staring up at the island with its imposing peaks and shrouding forests he wondered if he was the first Gael to rest his eyes on it. He could fully understand how such a place had passed into the realms of fantasy. A quick scan of the surrounding skies bore no sign of the legendary dragons that were rumoured to roam here. He quickly hid his disappoint.

Their ship sailed closer and still Brendan had not moved from the high stern, too enthralled to notice the crew working tirelessly at his back. He took in every detail of the culture on display around him. Rocks protruding from the sea acted like an imperious guard as they drifted towards the harbour cove, and he marvelled at the how they had been sculptured to resemble great Vikings of stone. Small trails of smoke drifted from fiery beacons stored in their crests as a signal that ships were approaching. These were works to rival the master craftsmen of ancient Rome, and Brendan admitted he'd been naïve in his understanding of these people. As they neared one unyielding sentinel, disturbing a small flock of sea birds as they floundered in a brief leeway, he could make out the intricate carvings adorning the rock; old tales and sagas lost to the passages of time but engraved as a lasting memorial to the histories and victories of their Viking ancestors. Brendan frowned; this was very unlike the barbarism that he had come to associate with Vikings. He glanced at the women around him. Maybe he had misjudged them, these hardy seafarers. They may raid, kill and enslave; but so did many other cultures, his own amongst them. Weren't the wonders of the ancient world built upon the blood and misery of those they conquered?

His reverie was interrupted by a loud horn call echoing over the waters. He looked up, to where a tall tower of wood and stone stood overlooking the harbours sea entrance. He could make out figures watching them from their towering perches, each grasping a spear. Another horn call boomed over the cove, shortly followed by another and Brendan turned to discover other ships cutting towards them, their sleek hulls slicing through the waves. Their decks were crammed with bearded folk, battered by harsh climates but animated by the festive occasion. Their patched sails cracked in the wind, all emblazoned with images of fierce creatures from boars and bears to wolves and dragons. On no prow stood the distinguished dragon-heads so feared by the northern world; this was a peaceful occasion and those beastly creations were safely stored for the raiding season, where instilling fear into their enemies was a primary necessity.

Brendan leapt down from the stern, stumbling into Idle-Tongue as his feet collided with a deck heavily laden with essential equipment. Uttering a hasty apology as she fixed him with a withering glare, he slipped between the rowing benches towards the mast, where their own sail was being unfurled. Glancing at it he did a double take; instead of the coarse sail used throughout their voyage that had survived buffetings and rips from ferocious winds and storms, this was a sail of new design. Unlike its blank counterpart, this depicted two crossed swords doused in what he swiftly realised was dried blood. He grimaced and crossed himself, sending a silent prayer towards the heavens for the unfortunate whose life force now adorned the sail's brutal heraldry.

Reaching the mast he bent down to gather his own meagre belongings, discovering Helldora still crouched low and cramming small trinkets into a pelt pouch. She caught his eye,

'Spellbound Priest?' she asked him mischievously, and he responded with the flash of a small smile,

'Captivated!' he replied honestly. She regarded him for a moment, before nodding. Suddenly the sky darkened and he realised they were passing in the shadow of the coves mouth. It was only a brief eclipse but long enough for him to miss the figure striding past. But Helldora's keen eyes missed nothing, and she stood, brimming with anticipation. Only when the ship fell silent did Brendan lift his head. He instantly gaped, for stood at the ship's bow was Camicazi. She looked resplendent; her torso covered by a short sleeved mail shirt, with vambraces on either forearm and greaves on her legs, stripped with iron to protect the vulnerable flesh. The mail was tucked securely beneath a thick leather belt, adorned with her twin swords. They were long saexes; blades forged to give their bearer with a dexterity and mobility to dazzle in the sword dance, though they would serve well in the crush of the shield wall, able to thrust beneath heaving shields to pierce her opponents' vulnerable groins. Her long golden hair hung in a warrior's braid, partially hidden behind a round shield strapped to her back. Her features were shadowed by a helmet engraved with fierce creatures and a nose-guard shaped like a snarling wolf.

She was a Viking warrior worthy of her ancestors; the embodiment of her people's brutal reputation and a woman born for war. Brendan couldn't peel his eyes away from the woman he had grown to resent. She glanced in his direction and smirked at his expression, then returned to staring out towards the harbour, where scores of ships were amassed. He could see their crews pause to regard the new arrival as it slowly cut through the cove.

Then Camicazi howled. The screech pierced the air, startling Brendan out of his reverie; a blood curdling keening that reverberated off the cove's surrounding rocks. Her crew answered her call with a slow chant, curled fists pounding on weapons and wood to send a dull rhythmic echo cascading about them. Oars were thrust through oar-ports and held straight and unmoving by strong arms. In response Camicazi leapt up, balancing nimbly on the ship's upper-strake. Brendan frowned and nudged Helldora, interrupting her chanting,

'What's going on?'

'The Oar-Dance,' she replied in between the thuds of a beating spear, 'it is a sign of her prowess; a customary obligation for the heir of a tribal Chief. It's good sport amongst us, but only the brave dare do it whilst dressed in the full panoply of battle. One false step and she'll be in Njord's keeping before we can fish her out.'

Brendan swallowed and once again looked at the Bog heiress. She appeared calm, undaunted by what lay before her. He remembered her boasts of scaling the steepest cliffs; she must be blessed by her Gods to risk such an enterprise. He offered God a silent prayer. He may resent her for striking him, for every cruel jibe she'd sent him, but she did not warrant such an undignified end; no one did.

'Is she insane?' he murmured quietly, eyeing the slippery oars held firmly parallel to the sea's swell. Helldora barked out a laugh,

'Aren't we all,' she answered. He shook his head in disbelief. More screeches issued from Camicazi before she drew her swords with a hiss from their ornate scabbards. She was met by cheers and heckles from the crowd gathering in the harbour, which were instantly drowned out by the increased chanting of the Bogs. Then, when she was certain that all eyes in the vicinity were fixed on her, she screeched one last time and leapt, swords in hand, onto the awaiting oars.

For a moment Brendan thought she'd lost her footing, expecting to watch her tumble into the sea where the weight of her mail would drag her down to a watery end. But again the Bog heiress surprised him, pivoting gracefully on one foot to face the perilous walk. Then she pranced forward; singing a soft, keening melody to honour her Gods. She darted forward, effortlessly stepping on each oar without pausing to debate her next step; nimbly dancing along the oars with that fierce grin plastered to her face. Like the supportive pounding of her crew she did not falter.

She reached the last oar barely a moment after she had begun the dance; flashed a mocking salute to those in the crowd whom dared to heckle her progress, and sprang back up to the upper-strake. Smiling fiendish she ripped off the snarling wolf helm where it fell with a clunk to the deck and howled into the sky. She was swiftly joined by the rest of the women aboard in a frenzy of wailing as they honoured their heiress's prowess.

Brendan breathed out slowly, only just realising he'd been holding his breath since the moment Camicazi had leapt to her fate. In the rebounding noise around him, Brendan swore that if he did one day settle down to write an account of this voyage, then he'd assuredly mention the suicidal act he'd just witnessed. He was astounded that such daring and disregard for life existed. He was still gawking when Camicazi finished her beastly call and strode stridently along the rowing benches, absorbing the praise of the Bog's with a proud smile. As she neared the mast she flicked him a glance, before saying mockingly,

'Stop gaping at me priest; at least get on your knees if you insist on worshipping me.' Brendan spluttered and his mouth immediately closed, scowling indignantly at Camicazi as she strode away without a backwards glance, her hips swaying more noticeably than ever before. Crossing himself to ward away the evil of her words, he cursed and returned to the task of gathering his belongings, silently chastising himself even if his mind replayed the image of a shining mail clad woman dancing through the spray of the sea, blissfully unaware of how it brought the smallest of smiles to his face.

The draakher safely docked in Berk's heaving harbour. The cove was teaming with vessels of varying size. Knarr's for trading, Karve's and Faering's for transportation, all dimmed by the prestige displayed by the occasional longship towering proudly all others like the Bog's draakher. Having secured the gangplanks; the Bog women had begun to disembark, unloading the few valuable gains of the raiding season whilst repairing any damages the vessel had acquired during their voyage. Brendan grimaced when he saw them and deliberated on how such a sleek and nimble ship had survived the clawing marks of submerged rocks and the battering's delivered by huge waves they'd faced along the Whale Roads.

He stood alone on a pier of floating wooden logs, held securely by giant columns weighed down by stone and thick knotted ropes that held it in place; seemingly forgotten by the seafarers he had sailed with. His bundled possessions were strung over his shoulder, whilst he rested his tired frame against a tall pole clenched in his hand. He felt lost. Whilst he had the forte to aid the Bogs with their unloading, his ineptitude was now notorious amongst them, so no one requested his help, leaving him stranded in their negligent presence. He could have left to explore the sweeping walkways to the cliff top, but it was crowded with Vikings and he felt his confidence flee at the sight of them. These were hardened creatures, broad and brutal in look, bearded and cloaked in heavy pelts to ward off the region's freezing temperatures; sullen eyes scowling from behind heaps of greasy, knotted locks. He wished to avoid any unwanted attention, for he was more than aware of how his soft features and clerical dress marked him out as an obvious stranger to these shores, even when hooded in his threadbare, piss stained cloak. So Brendan remained standing ill at ease, flushing in embarrassment as he was conveniently ignored by those around him. God help him if Camicazi caught him not pulling his weight.

It was Helldora who offered him solace; subtly asking him to lend what remote help he could with repairing the rigging whilst the temperamental terror was preoccupied exchanging heated words with Gudrun Gokstad-Born. But instead of gifting him with an escape from Camicazi's attention, she had other motives she wished to discuss with the young priest. Brendan was only alerted to this when he caught a glimpse of the sly glance she was giving him,

'You weren't very clever were you?' she commented amusedly, receiving Brendan's adopted silent retort, 'I mean, you can even read can't you? You White Christ lot are always bragging that stuff like that means you're clever.' Brendan just stared at her incredulously,

'I said you weren't very clever,' she repeated casually when he failed to reply, 'you act like you're clever enough to match wits with wise Odin; but really you're just a little bit thick.'

'Thick…you think I'm thick?' He dropped the rigging he'd been carefully gathering. She looked thoughtful for a moment,

'Yep,' she confirmed with a smile, 'and that's why you deserved it when she punched you. What you said to her was pretty idiotic.'

'She deserved everything I said,'

'Maybe,' she sighed cordially, soothing his growing anger, 'but you went about it all wrong. Look, I've known Camicazi for years now, we grew up together; she's a young lass with a lot of responsibility on her shoulders. Add that fiery temper of hers and a preference for using a blade rather than her tongue to quell an argument, and you have a typical Viking girl on the brink of womanhood. She's having to step out from behind the shadow of her mother's reputation and find her own way in a world…'

'So she's scared?' he interrupted, bemused at where she was taking this exchange. Helldora chocked back a laugh,

'No, she's fearless. You saw that earlier with the Oar-Dance. She didn't have to do it, but she wished to honour her tribe. Give her a sword and she'll march against any enemy, battle any foe. But she's apprehensive. She's conscious of inexperience when leading warriors and too preoccupied with avoiding her mother's legend. We've had a hard time of it this season, with few gains and too many losses. The girl's wouldn't usually mind; we are Vikings; the Norn's spin the thread of our fortunes and we live with death as a close companion, especially when raiding. But they expected more from their future ring-giver and she failed to live up to their expectations. It wasn't her fault; we didn't anticipate the difficulties we faced, but she's having to live with the consequences now.' She paused to glance at Camicazi, who was still trading harsh words with Gokstad-Born. Brendan followed her gaze. Judging by the elaborate gestures on show, the debate was becoming heated, Camicazi's expression reddening with a fury usually reserved for him. Her impassive comrade just stared her leader down with a look glazed with disappointment. Brendan felt the brief fluttering's of pity swell in him, but his indignant outrage at her previous beating behaviour fought the sympathetic thoughts down. He turned back to his task,

'How does this concern me?' he grunted harshly. Helldora rolled her eyes,

'She's furious with you,' she pointed out, 'or rather with the situation. Angry that the only semblance of success from her first raiding season comes from the wealth your hoarding. She's disappointed because it wasn't won by feat of arms, or stolen with wit and daring. It's silver she's relying on you to provide; on you, a big, blundering, pathetic Gael…'

'Remind me why I talk to you again?'

'Quiet,' she hushed him impatiently, 'she's also angry that she can't bring herself to hate you.'

'What?' he spluttered disbelievingly, 'of course she hates me; she punched me in the face.'

'You deserved it,' she pointed out calmly, 'but that doesn't mean she hates you. When Cami hates someone, she usually sticks a sword in them until their dead. You're still alive because she _only_ punched you. I don't understand that White Christ magic you wield holy man, but the spells you weave must be powerful enchantments…' Ignoring her heretical talk of magic, he attempted to decipher what she told him. It merely confused him more.

'Wait, so if it isn't hate, then why does she verbally berate me; strike me and threaten to kill me every chance she gets?'

'Aye, she does that often,' she agreed with a knowing twinkle in her eye, 'a little too regularly for a lass who supposedly dreams of ending your worthless life.' Brendan decided he disliked Helldora's smirk. It unsettled him, like the trickster Loki scenting mortal prey. The amused glint shining in her eyes sent a chill shiver down his spine and he crossed himself against the evil ruses she could unleash on him. Her justification of her childhood friend's erratic behaviour only served to fuel his confusion further. Was she warning him to tread carefully around Camicazi unless he prayed for an early grave, or was she telling him that he was unique in his uncanny ability to survive even her most brutal temper?

'I'm really lost,' he admitted helplessly. Helldora chuckled, but before she could elaborate a snort of disdain interrupted them. Brendan whirled around, lost his footing and almost went sprawling into the gap between the pier and the ship's bobbing hull. It was Helldora's swift reactions that saved him from his watery fate, leaping forward to hoist him back to the deck. Amidst the laughter from the Viking's who had spied the incident, Brendan straightened from Helldora's steadying grasp, mustering as much dignity as he could.

'You've been lost since you left your homeland Priest.' He glared at Camicazi as she snorted at another display of his seafaring incompetence. Conflicting emotions stormed within him. His rage was boiling to the surface and he was struggling to withhold it. Shortly after regaining consciousness following their previous disagreement, Brendan had almost deposited his entire silver hoard to the depths of the sea. It was only the realisation that he'd be shortly following it that stilled his hand. But now, remembering what Helldora had told him about that hoard's importance, he managed to hold his tongue before he retaliated. He observed the fiery warrior stood before him. She was tense, and her face remained flushed from her argument with Gokstad-Born. He risked a glance towards the latter, to find her conversing with a small gathering of others, including Idle-Tongue and Dagger-Happy. They were all frowning unkindly, sending heated glares towards their heiress. Brendan noticed how the corner of Camicazi's eyes were threatening to sparkle with unshed tears. Pity besieged his soul. But he was troubled; why had she come to him, of all people, when she was blatantly upset? She must be seeking Helldora's company, he surmised, as they were loyal childhood companions. The added perk of heckling him must have added to the temptation. Assembling all his available resolve he sighed in resignation,

'I'm sorry you should think that,' he said quietly. Helldora paused in her task, blinking in disbelief. Camicazi frowned, thrown off guard by Brendan's subdued reply. Suddenly unsure, she fidgeted awkwardly before spotting a storage bundle of useless weaponry, blunted from hard fought skirmishes and rusted by the salty air. Picking up the prize she threw it into Brendan's arms, sending the Irishman stumbling back as he adjusted to its weight,

'Don't think I didn't notice you standing around as clueless as a new born lamb,' she snarled scornfully, 'take those to the blacksmith. They need sharpening and I won't have you standing idly by bringing shame to my tribe.' She grabbed a handful of his clerical robes and forced him down the gangplank. Brendan staggered and almost lost his footing, but after righting himself he just stared back at her. He was holding his tongue by a hairs breadth, biting it so hard it was becoming painful. Still scowling, he paused to reclaim his possessions before slowly walking away. All pity aside; if she didn't hate him, then he really hated her.

As he trudged along the pier struggling with his heavy burden, he almost collided with an expansive figure pacing towards the Bog vessel. His fair hair was thick, almost white, and framed a face lined with strong features that suited his broad stature. He wore a tunic dyed red beneath a heavy cloak of cobalt blue, fastened to his shoulder by a broach as large as Brendan's hand. The hilt of a heavy broad-sword protruded from beneath it, whilst the lamb-skin sheath banged against his thigh as he walked. He appeared to be Brendan's age, though Brendan would gamble that his age and size were the only common traits they shared. Hastily avoiding the burly man, who glanced at him dismissively as he passed, Brendan began to continue his journey. But his traitorous ears still heard the large man's booming voice echo over the harbour,

'Camicazi,' he greeted jovially, 'I didn't know you'd ventured into trading slaves?'

'He's no slave Thuggery,' Camicazi amended, sounding regretful, 'just a worthless Gael; he paid well to accompany us.'

'A Gael?' laughed Thuggery incredulously, looking back at Brendan's retreating form, 'I mistook him for a thrall.'

'May as well be,' spat the Bog heiress, 'his uses are limited.'

'As are yours,' replied the man with a smile, 'I saw you little dance earlier; thought you were going to do us all a favour and drown to spare us from your stench…'

Brendan had travelled too far from the scene to hear or witness Camicazi's reply, merely catching the hiss of an outraged tirade and the resulting booming laugh. He was furious with the man already. How dare he call him a thrall! It was a Viking term, used throughout the northern kingdoms of Europe and associated with a people whose lives did not belong to them. They were slaves; plucked from their homelands by raiding sea-wolves or victorious armies and plunged into an existence of misery and oppression. Horrifically marked with scars to distinguish their thraldom, they served their masters and did their every bidding; whether to plough their land, warm their beds or to be sold in the slave markets of the East, where fair haired slaves were a particular delicacy for distant lords and emirs. They lived a life bereft of any joy. Brendan had seen such piteous creatures horded in the markets of his native lands booming long-phorts and had been moved to tears by the sight of people torn from their families, stinking of blood, grime and plagued with disease. The Irish Sea swarmed with slavers during the raiding season, hailing from all the kingdoms and principalities that shared its shoreline. It was a fate he feared and the reason he was so enraged at being associated with it. Spitting in disgust, he adjusted the bundle in his arms and climbed the steep walkway, steadily rising above the gathering ship's harboured in the cove whilst receiving curious looks from the natives who noticed his peculiar garb.

His breathing was laboured by the time his aching limbs reached the cliff's peak, hesitating as he sought a respite from his burden. Sadly he found none, because for the first time since his arrival he beheld the ancient village of Berk, the oldest settlement in the Archipelagos in all its Viking glory. It was founded on a gentle slope, though Brendan could tell that as the populace grew so too had the village, expanding out onto the sheer rocky outcrops of Raven's Point, with some homesteads appearing to have been chiselled from the mountain itself. Brendan's eyes wandered over the bustling place with fascinated curiosity. The maritime history of these people was alive in the elongated homesteads they lived in, carved from great wooden timbers and strengthened by wattle and daub. Their roofs were curved like the upturned hull of a longship, thickly thatched to protect their inhabitants from the hostile elements. Brendan was surprised at how new these ancient holdings looked, as if they had been only recently constructed.

A few buildings stood out from their peers. The first to catch Brendan's eye was the dominating Great Hall that towered above the surrounding homesteads. It was held tall by high columns carved with intricate depictions of myths and legends. The bristling thatch of its oblong build shone gold in the sun. The next was a solitary homestead standing apart from the village higher up the slope, like a prowling dragon from old sagas guarding its hoard. Another noticeable structure was a huge stone amphitheatre, hewn from the rock of the mountain and accessible by a long stone causeway. He marvelled at such a structure, having once studied from the knowledgeable tomes in his monastery's library, the Roman designs that littered the Saxon states of Britain.

Beside well-worn paths that meandered through the village grew vegetation, some tended to provide the villager's with fruit and grains; others were left to grow wild, fed upon by rambling livestock. From lumbering cattle to flocks of horned sheep, they manoeuvred around the village with the liberty of free-men, though Brendan also spotted goats, pigs, chickens, cats and dogs flittering amongst the seething crowds.

That bought his attention to the people swarming Berk. Brendan was stunned to silence by the everyday happenings these Vikings busied themselves with. Labourers sat beside stalls, displaying a whole manner of varying crafts from carpenters, builders and the like, working bone, glass, metal, wood and leather to produce items and trinkets worthy to be sold. He noticed traders bartering with locals; newly arrived traveller's conversing with distant kin over horn cups of frothing mead whilst earthly women gossiped as they span wool and cared for their hearths as children screamed gleefully about them. These were a people who enjoyed life and revelled in its simple pleasures, far removed from the prowling reputation of the Sea-wolves feared the world over. Now here he was; in the den of wolves and pondering the similarities between these Vikings and his own people.

A hard shove sent him tumbling into a grassy ditch beside the walkway.

'Out of the way with you,' growled a hulking man, red faced from the effort of lugging a slaughtered whale to the butcher's stall and unwilling to lose any momentum.

'Sorry,' Brendan muttered, scanning the collection of homesteads. A thick trail of blackened smoke rose high. That must be the local blacksmith. The sooner he parted with Camicazi's weaponry then the sooner he could turn his attention to the task that had brought him so far from across the sea.

Hoisting the bundle he ploughed into the crowd. A skald wove tales of trolls and heroes to the delight of his growing audience; two teams pulling a long animal skin in a tugging war, a smouldering fire in the middle adding certain fission to the feat; an elderly man sat whittling away at a bone, shaping it into a galloping horse for a young girl staring wide eyed at his fee to play with. He noted them all, and he smiled, revelling in the simplistic atmosphere. They may be worshippers of a Pagan religion vilified by the Roman Church, but Brendan decided he could learn to enjoy his time here.

He followed the winding path until he reached a robust place of stone and wood. Heat resonated from the place, whilst the flames of the forge illuminated the open entrance. Sighing with relief he approached he forge, the sound of a pounding hammer on fiery metal reaching his ears as he neared. With a gasp he flung the bundled weapons to the ground at the forge's threshold and stretched his aching back. He heard the hammer strikes pause briefly in the settlements dark interior before continuing on. Realising that his task was not yet complete, Brendan slid into the forge. He instantly regretted it. Seething heat converged on him, drenching him in sweat and strangling his breath.

'God,' Brendan choked. His eyes bulged and he stepped back hurriedly, basking in the cold, fresh air. From within the forge he made out a soft chuckle, before the hiss of burning metal being doused crackled in the dark, bellowing steam out of the entrance. Recovering and not making the mistake of entering such a Hell again, he stared into the place. Weapons mounted the walls; swords, spears, axes, daggers, shields, bows and other military contraptions alien to him. They were stoutly made, but retained an eloquence in their design that astounded him. He was no expert on Viking weapons, but even his untrained eye could tell that these were masterfully made by a great craftsman of the art.

'Are you lost?' The voice hailed him from inside the forge. Brendan startled,

'No,' he replied hesitantly, 'I've been tasked by my…_shipmaster_…to bring these weapons to you. She wants them all sharpening for the new raiding season.' There was a brief lull, before the voice replied thoughtfully,

'It's late in the year; I doubt they'll be much raiding left this season before winter sets in and I have a backlog of work to get through. Can they wait?' The priest blanched. Camicazi had failed to mention when she wished the task completed. He gulped, before his eyes hardened. By God, she'd called him a thrall he remembered bitterly, and with that his mind was made,

'Certainly,' he replied, though wishing to spare the ignorant man from the Bog-Heiresses infamous wrath, he added, 'though I'd make it a future priority; she's a little daemon so she is, and wouldn't hesitate to put a sword in you if she disapproves.' The blacksmith chuckled softly, giving Brendan time to note the gentle lilt of his voice, a contrast to the broad dialect of these northern Vikings. He usually struggled to register two words in five, and throughout his long voyage had often settled on meekly nodding his head when he couldn't understand what his companions were saying. He had no such issues with the softly spoken blacksmith. Strange how the local vernacular differed between tribes located so near. He heard the blacksmith rustling within the forge, before inquiring,

'You're not from around here are you?' Brendan smiled at the man's shrewdness,

'What gave me away?'

'Many things,' replied the blacksmith courteously. Brendan could make out the soft creak of iron whistling from the forge, 'Our language sounds foreign on your tongue, although you speak it well. Another is that you howled out for a _God_ when you entered here; not Gods but _a_ God, which means you're a Christian.' The priest frowned. The blacksmith was shrewd indeed, to have scrutinised his exclamation so swiftly. Surprisingly he didn't sound revolted by the presence of a White Christ follower. He sounded rather intrigued. Brendan heard a distorted pacing echoing from the forge.

'You're right,' he admitted quietly, loath to admit his religious beliefs too loudly in this nest of Pagans, not without a surety that he wouldn't be killed; sacrificed in some pagan ritual to appease their false gods. The blacksmith chuckled,

'How is it that a worshipper of the Christian God finds himself on Berk?' he asked, though it sounded as if he was musing over the question as well.

'I come seeking a legend,' Brendan laughed. The forge fell eerily silent as he continued, 'to ask a favour from my native homeland.' The silence stretched on, and Brendan frowned as the blacksmith failed to reply. His interest pricked, he turned to look into the forge when suddenly he found himself face to face with a young Viking man. Unlike most of his compatriots he was tall and lean, his toned frame exposed to the elements and covered in soot and sweat. He was as tall as Brendan, with long red hair flopping to the nape of his neck. A long healed scar marked his chin, as did many others along his torso and arms. A friendly smile lit the blacksmith's expression. Brendan had been expecting a giant of a man, maybe with a missing limb or two; not a man barely past boyhood.

The blacksmith stared impassively back under Brendan's scrutiny, before easing his frame slightly to his right. Brendan's frown deepened at the display before glancing down for the cause of it, his eyes settling on a creaking metallic peg strapped to his left leg where a foot and shin should have been. The Irishman's eyes widened at the instrument, before he blanched and staggered back, physically repulsed by the disability. The man was crippled, and at such a young age. He looked up with the same pity he reserved for the lepers who amassed around his church's gate, and scrambled around his robe in search of any alms he could offer him. The blacksmith's green eyes flashed, the smile instant gone, annoyed by his judgemental behaviour,

'You seek a legend?' he inquired coldly. Brendan could only nod, his cheeks flushing red as he became increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. The blacksmith's kind smile dropped to a thin line, his features hardening to replicate chiselled stone. Even the air about them seemed to darken as all warmth from the forge seeped away to leave an icy chill. He appeared to be awaiting for Brendan's reply and the young priest gulped,

'A legend who rides a dragon into battle?' he stuttered. The blacksmith glared at him for a moment more, his eyes searching Brendan's. Then he sighed, and rubbed a weary hand over his grime, stained face,

'There is no such legend here,' he said firmly. Brendan's brow furrowed and he would have argued further but the blacksmith had already turned his back with the intention of re-entering the forge, hoisting up the bundle of weapons Brendan had dropped to floor with practised ease. But as he limped past the threshold to resume his work and Brendan darted forward to reclaim the man's attention, a shadow descended on them.

It shot past, blocking out the light offered by the meagre rays of sunlight. Brendan stopped and looked up before gasping in disbelief. The blacksmith paused at the threshold and stared up also, for a dragon had just flown past. The creature was immense; reptilian in look with a large scarlet snout whilst a pair of twisting horns protruded from its scaly skull. Mighty claws hung close to his underbelly whilst the expansive wingspan beat great gusts onto the gathered crowd below, blowing over stalls and forcing many to shield their eyes from clouds of dust. A crested tail forked out in its wake. Brendan was rendered speechless as loud cries and awed gasps broke the air around him. Never had he believed such a majestic creation could exist. Dragons were lost to the mists of time, fallen into myth and legend. It was all God's creations in one; the cunning of a wolf, the nobility of a stag, the strength of a boar and the ferocity of a bear were all resplendent in the beast's smirking countenance. To see such a creature in all its serpentine glory brought tears to his eyes.

The great beast flew on, shooting into the sky overhead, before nimbly twisting in the air and descending in a breath taking spectacle of speed towards the village below. Only this time it was joined by others, and Brendan marvelled at the varying species. One had two heads and hissed as it passed; another great mass buzzed; another creature had the same shimmering scales as its predecessor, and seemed to blaze through the sky. A loud screech pierced his ears and he turned to find another dragon sweeping past, this with scales of cerulean blue and littered with razor spikes. They twirled and danced in the sky above, flaring the imaginations of all present until all eyes were turned upwards. Forgotten, the blacksmith shook his head and rolled his eyes at the arrogant display.

Suddenly with a flap of his wings the leading specimen dropped to the ground beside the Great Hall and was shortly followed by the others.

'The Riders of Berk,' Brendan breathed, and without a backwards glance at the lonely blacksmith he sprinted off in the direction of the landing dragons, leaving the man staring at his retreating back, looking deeply troubled.

When Brendan arrived at the Great Hall, a crowd had already amassed around the purring creatures. The locals smiled at the display, used to their presence over the skies of Berk. The travellers from the nearby tribes had no such experience and stood in an awed and gaping ring, inching ever closer but aware that a respectful distance was needed. Some nervously fingered stored weapons at the sight of their fabled enemy, but wiser heads advised them to keep their blades sheathed. Domesticated as these dragons were, they were still wild creatures able to harness untold powers when threatened; best not to instigate such a disastrous situation.

On his arrival Brendan dived into the throng, sliding between broad Vikings and past shrieking children until he erupted in the front rank of the enclosing ring, oblivious to the indignant looks he received from those he had barged out of the way. He stopped and stared in wonder, for the fiery beasts were even more spectacular when stood mere yards away; towering over their admirers.

Yet, even more mythical than the beasts themselves, were the riders who slid from their backs. One was a huge man of herculean stature, whose fearsome size was off balanced by the loving caress he gave his bulky mount when tracing a hand over the creatures scales. Another was a man with flaming red hair that fell in a warrior's braid to his waist, a thick bow resting upon his shoulders. Two more were tall, fair haired twins; the male carrying a leaf-bladed spear whilst the woman had the look of a fabled huntress; armed with a stack of javelins and a murderous throwing axe that she thrust in her brothers direction as they squabbled. Two more men stood to the side, both heavily cloaked and armed with swords whilst a third still sat astride his large mount, speaking soothing words to quell its flaming nature. But the last two figures were warriors born from legend. One was a tall woman with streaming golden hair, cloaked in fur pelts that covered her mail shirt but failed to hide the broad-axe she leant against, a small smile adorning her beautiful face as she stared at the man beside her. He was a true hero, born from the sagas; from his shining armour to the mighty sword he held. His features were rugged, the visage of a warrior. A beaming smile glowed out from behind long locks as golden as the hair that crowned the woman beside him. Warrior rings decorated all their arms; a symbol of their martial prowess.

This was the fabled band, thought Brendan, the protagonists of such daring exploits that rumours of their deeds had reached as far south as the Middle-Sea. It was said that the Emperor of the Byzantines feared their coming, and that Kings of the northern realms gathered hoards of riches to appease their power in case they flew south to bring fire and sword to those lands. The Vikings around him cheered their presence. Brendan found himself staring hard at the man at the forefront of the acclaim. This must be him, he thought, such a legend could be no other man. He had sailed the Whale Road for this chance. He may have no other opportunity to honour such a hero. Mustering all his courage he stood at his full height, dusted his robes and stepped out of the ring towards the riders and their draconian companions.

'My Lord,' he greeted loudly, attempting to smile disarmingly as he strode forward. Sudden bouts of whispering broke out from the amassed crowd, puzzled at the appearance of this strange foreigner. The riders all turned to him, falling silent in surprise. The dragons raised their snouts before judging him as no threat and returning to other concerns. The lordly warrior he'd addressed stared down at him from his intimidating height; whilst the woman beside him levelled a curiously cold look in his direction. When Brendan reached them he paused, and then bowed low,

'My Lord, it gives me the greatest pleasure to address the Riders of Berk. I have travelled many miles and through great hardships to stand before you with an offer from my people; will you allow me to speak?' The warrior appeared amused, whilst the woman beside him was frowning. Eventually, he waved a hand and spoke in a tenor both noble and clear,

'I will allow it; speak your peace.' His confidence boosted, he returned to his full height. Taking a deep breath, he said loudly, for all to hear.

'My Lord, I am Brendan Ui-Neill of the northern tribes of Ireland. I have travelled here to request a favour. A request that comes from the hearts of all my native people and one that they pray in hope you will answer.' He paused to scan the attentive crowd about him, hesitating slightly when he recognised Camicazi amongst them, gaping at him. Brendan smiled smugly at her before once again turning to address the Riders of Berk.

'The Irish people are plagued by war. The people suffer as they're lives are torn asunder by warring factions as the sons of the Ui-Neill squabble for power. Innocents are dying; the survivors sold into slavery and forced to relive the last fading moments of their families lives. There is no profit from such a war, and rival kingdoms already muster their warriors to invade the weak...'

'Spare us your stories little man,' interrupted the tall warrior, 'many die as a result of war; how this concerns the Riders of Berk I cannot fathom?'

'I apologise my Lord,' Brendan said hastily, frustrated with his flair for storytelling, 'I merely wished to give you an honest account of the suffering of my people. The favour we ask is that the Riders of Berk intervene; to bring the war to a close. Such a band of heroes are legendary beyond these shores, your appearance would undoubtedly pressure the warring factions of the Ui-Neill to bridge the canyons caused by jealousy and hate and come to peaceful terms…'

Again he was interrupted as the lordly warrior barked out a laugh,

'You pander well for a Gael,' he said before narrowing his eyes. He barred his teeth in a fearsome smirk that sent a shiver down Brendan's spine. He fidgeted uncomfortably under the man's piercing scrutiny, 'but your tale stirs something deep within me. Tell me, what riches would your people offer us for our services?' Brendan blanched. He had not accounted for such a question. He saw the woman beside the warrior close her eyes briefly, but when they opened again they remained icily cold.

'My…my,' he fumbled weakly, 'My Lord, we are impoverished. We cannot offer much. The fathers of the local monastery's would all contribute what they could, but these are hard times and most goes on alms to aid the people, or else is stolen by bands of warriors to fuel more violence and suffering.' The warrior looked bemused,

'So let me see,' he said slowly, speaking to Brendan as if he spoke to a slow-minded child, 'you ask us to risk our lives; to battle against your enemies; to bring peace to your homeland, and you expect us to do this for nothing?'

'You're mistaken; we would offer you all we can but…'

'No, the Riders of Berk do not ride unless there is reason too. I see no reason here…'

'No reason,' blurted Brendan in astonishment, 'people are dying!'

'People die all the time. Many have died at my hand. Would you expect us to wage war on your enemies for you Gael?'

'I did not ask you to wage war,' Brendan said, his mind clouding with anger at this warrior's arrogant behaviour, 'I asked you to intervene, to pressure the sons of the Ui-Neill to seek peaceful terms…'

'We are warriors. We live by the blades of our swords, the bravery of our hearts and the strength in our arms. We will not leave our homeland at the request of such a pathetic plea.' He made to turn around, but Brendan leapt forward, clutching at the hem of the warrior's cloak.

'Please my Lord, I beseech you…'

'Enough,' said the woman firmly, in a voice brittle with contempt, 'Leave it be, he has decided…' her intervention allowed the warrior to snatch his cloak free from Brendan's grasp. The young priest slowly stood, his eyes blazing with righteous fire.

'So this is your will?' The lordly warrior nodded dismissively,

'It is!'

'Then so be it,' Brendan said angrily. He glimpsed Camicazi watching on with increasing unease and his fury reared. Memories of all the beatings he had taken; the contemptuous sneers he had been subjected to during his long voyage; all the humiliation he had humbly resided himself too. All for nothing, he felt sick. In the distant vestiges of his memory he heard the spectral cries of a young woman facing an oncoming rush of swords and fire, screaming his name. It overrode all his common sense and he found his mouth opening in a bitter retort,

'After all the legends I have heard I find myself disappointed,' he snarled. That gained the bands attention, 'If you will ignore the pleas of women and children murdered in their homes as they grieve for their men slain in needless battle, then you are not the heroes I seek. I hope the Lord God has their screams linger on your cowardly conscious Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third,' and with that finishing curse he summoned all his remaining courage and spat at the warrior's feet.

There was a sudden intake of breath from the horrified crowd, telling Brendan that once again he had stepped too far. The woman beside the warrior gaped, whilst the fellow members of the warrior-band all mirrored her expression. But all these were dwarfed by the reaction of the man whose honour had been questioned. He seemed to expand as his face darkened, seething with rage,

'You dare… he choked, unable to finish his statement as a thunderous fury washed through him. His woman made to grab his arm and check his murderous intentions, but he shrugged it off, his eyes piercing Brendan's as he paced forwards.

'I…I….' the young priest stuttered, the consuming rage he had felt evaporating with as much haste as it had arrived.

'You dare call me that name!' Confusion blighted Brendan's mind. But he didn't have much time to muster a reply, as a hard hand struck his chest and shoved him backwards, 'you mistake me for him?' He sounded furiously incredulous, and Brendan began to realise his mistake. So this wasn't Hiccup Horrendous Haddock he thought sourly, bitter at the fledgling flutter of renewed hope that his journey was not yet in vain. Granted, if the target of his pleas was on this island, then Brendan had most likely lost his chance anyway, along with his life judging by the look flaming in his opponents eyes.

'But…' he tried to counter, but the formidable warrior gave him no opportunity to rectify his mistake,

'_But, but_…' said the warrior, 'you are full of _but's_ Gael. My name is Bold Bjornson; the same Bold Bjornson, breaker of shield walls and whose sword his feared in many kingdoms and you; a craven creature whose people are so spineless that they beg for Viking's to fight their battles for them and you dare call me a coward?'

He shoved Brendan back again, harder this time so that the unfortunate priest stumbled and almost fell. A bout of anticipation spread through the watching Vikings. They knew only one outcome. The dragons raised their heads and emitted a guttural growl, scenting blood.

'I'm sorry,' Brendan gasped but it was far too late. Bold's anger was roused and he had the blood of warriors in him. A fist shot out, smashing into Brendan's unprotected face. Bold Bjornson's strength was unmatched on the Archipelago's, and it flung the Irishman back to collapse in a heap at his feet. For a moment Brendan was blinded as his head exploded with white light. Shaking dazedly he realised the bitter taste of iron filling his mouth was blood. He spat it out, staining his robes further, before glancing about him, seeking an ally. His eyes honed in on Camicazi, who stood still and grave, her hand clenched white over the pommel of her sword. But she did not move, nor meet his eye, although she did look conflicted. Brendan closed his eyes, resigning himself to his failure and approaching death. He heard the hiss of a blade being unsheathed and the crowd's excited murmur in response. Some even shouted their encouragement to the enraged warrior, baying for Brendan to be split apart like a butchered hog. A prayer flashed through his mind and his lips moved quickly, retelling the hard taught words beaten into him by his clerical brothers.

'I dislike Christians,' growled Bold scornfully, 'you White Christ followers die so easily, especially holy men like you. It is a woman's religion is it not? The All Father will be pleased when I honour him with your death…'

'Coward,' spat Brendan, suddenly as defiant as a roaring lion. It stunned the crowd into silence even as it pushed Bold beyond the extremities of his earlier rage. The sword was raised high, gleaming in the sunlight. Brendan closed his eyes. He could feel his God calling to him. He would die here, martyred by Pagan swords like so many saints before him. The sword paused, and then began to fall; even as Brendan's brief display of defiance spurred Camicazi to take a step forward in a vain attempt to intervene.

'HALT!'

A voice bellowed through the crowd. Brendan could hear their excited chatter reach a new fever pitch. Still half expecting to feel the scything metal of a sword blade cutting him in half, his eyes remained closed. But it never came, and hesitantly he opened them. He just blinked; for the blade hovered inches from his face; its owner's skill bringing the sword to a premature stop mid-stroke. Seeing how close it stood from splitting his skull in two, Brendan almost pissed himself. Looking up at his assailant, he realised Bold's attention was not on him, but glued to a figure striding through the crowd. The inner rank of the surrounding Viking's parted to reveal the tall frame of the local blacksmith, unarmed and now dressed in a fine green tunic. He limped into the makeshift arena, his eyes darting rapidly to absorb the scene. When he stopped, his eyes rested on Bold.

'That's enough Bold,' he said calmly. Bjornson regarded the blacksmith with a sneer, and even Brendan could feel the waves of hatred resonating from the domineering warrior.

'You intervene on his behalf Pin-leg?' The blacksmith's remained calm, as if he had never heard the insult.

'Sheath you sword Bold Bjornson,' he repeated coolly.

'What is it to you if I kill this man?'

'There is no honour in slaying an unarmed Christian Bold; besides, he is my friend,' replied the blacksmith warningly, 'I will not tell you again; sheath you sword.' Not all the coolness in the world could hide the hint of authority resonating from the blacksmith's tone. It brooked no argument, though Bold seemed to be verging on confronting it. Then a soft, pale hand touched his and he glanced down at the axe-wielding woman beside him. She shook her head, and sighing, the warrior reluctantly sheathed his blade. Brendan resisted the urge to piss again, this time out of shear relief and drew a cross across his chest with a trembling hand.

Bold and the blacksmith remained glaring at each other for a long time, before the taller warrior sneered disdainfully,

'The cripple and the White Christ holy man, sworn friends for the rest of their craven lives,' he spat in contempt, the bile adding another stain to Brendan's garments, 'Cowards stick together aye.' He swiftly kicked Brendan's prone form, eliciting a grunt of pain as his heavy boot connected with the priest's ribs. Groaning, he twisted around to see the blacksmith's eyes flash with piercing thunder and his hand twitched slightly. But then it was gone, quelled as suddenly as it flickered into existence, to be replaced by his usual nonchalant glare.

'Listen,' he said loudly, so that all who gathered there could hear him, 'Brendan Ui-Neill is my friend, and under my protection. If he comes to harm I shall know, and there will be retribution. Now return to your tasks my friends, we have many days of festivities to prepare before the Althing.'

Laughing mockingly at the blacksmiths speech, Bold gracefully mounted his dragon, who had watched the proceeding event with bored contempt. Shouting an order for his comrades to follow, he was gone in a cloud of dust and sweeping wings. The Riders of Berk followed shortly in pursuit, though the golden haired woman hesitated, pausing in the process of shouldering her axe to stare at the blacksmith for a long moment. He met her stare, and she seemed perturbed by the coldness reflected in his eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but when no words came she simply shrugged awkwardly and paced away. With a flap of bounding wings she was gone, leaving the dust to settle in her wake. The blacksmith watched her go, his eyes filled with sad melancholy as the crowd departed to continue with more medial tasks and lamenting the missed opportunity of seeing blood spilt. After a moment, the blacksmith turned towards the prone Brendan. He limped over and smiled down at the moaning priest,

'You have a talent for finding trouble my friend,' he said wryly, grasping Brendan's arm and hoisting him to his feet. He possessed a strength Brendan wouldn't have believed possible for such a lean man. Standing shakily, Brendan returned his smile,

'And the strangest skill for surviving it,' he replied weakly, still winded from Bold's kick. The blacksmith chuckled, his smile widening.

'You really do,' he agreed, 'but it may be wise to avoid Bold for now. As much as I regret to say it Bold is a great warrior and a powerful figure on this island. He's a dangerous man to start a feud with, even for someone as lion hearted as you; and I may not always be there to support you.' There was a warning note hidden in his message, and Brendan swore to grasp it with both hands.

'I owe you a life debt,' Brendan said passionately. The blacksmith scoffed lightly, clapping him gently on the shoulder,

'There's no need,' he assured him firmly, 'now it may be better if you slept with company tonight. Is there anyone here that will defend you if Bold decides to finish what he started?' Brendan paused and looked around him, but Camicazi was nowhere to be seen, having vanished back into the seething village. Sighing at the bitter resentment that seethed within him at her betrayal, he looked back at the blacksmith and shook his head. The young man offered him a sad smile, before guiding him back towards his forge,

'Don't fear; there is always a place at my hearth for a friend with a tale to tell. I have balms you can use to nurse those wounds and good food so you can recover your strength. I also have your possessions stored in my forge when you hurried to test Bold's temper,' he chuckled disarmingly, and Brendan found a smile, 'besides, we have a lot to discuss.' Brendan eyed him curiously,

'Why?'

'Because my name is Hiccup,' he said mildly, turning to meet Brendan's stunned gaze, 'I believe we have much to discuss Brendan Ui-Neill, and the war that grips your native land is merely the tip of it. I'm afraid far greater troubles lie ahead…'


	3. Chapter 3: Tales by the Fireside

**Tales by the Fireside**

The flames flickered in the small hearth fire, disturbed by a cold breeze rushing past. It illuminated the two young men sat beside it, sharing a broth made from red meat and stewed vegetables. Slurping the meal down, Hiccup gently discarded his bowl before settling to study the Christian Gael he'd earlier rescued from a bloodied fate. The priest was eagerly finishing his own stew, having not tasted such a rich feast for many moons. He finished it with a flourish, sighing contently; he closed his eyes and savoured the moment. But as he thanked God for such a fulfilling meal. Hiccup's soft voice drew him from his internal fulfilment,

'You had a narrow escape today.' Brendan opened his eyes, looking sheepish.

'I know,' he admitted, remembering the hulking Viking warrior whose temper had been roused to fury by his careless words. Brendan's irrational anger would be his undoing. The guilt he felt at almost squandering this opportunity to seek aid for his people's plight made him nauseous, 'to think I almost lost everything.' Hiccup smiled,

'It's in the past; best to not dwell on it,'

'But I almost died,'

'Exactly!' said the young Viking, 'but you didn't die. Learn from your mistakes my friend, and when your next faced with a similar situation you won't be in such a haste to part with your life.' Brendan smiled. He highly doubted that. When his blood was roused he turned reckless, with no thought to his personal welfare and only God knew how Bold Bjornson would react when they met again.

'Tell that to your warrior friend!' he mumbled sourly.

'He's not my friend,' said Hiccup quietly, but when Brendan looked up questioningly at the cold tone, Hiccup refused to meet his eye. Sighing he continued, 'but you have nothing to fear from Bold. Yes, avoid him if you must; until his rage has passed at least. He's a famous warrior in these regions, having sailed ships and fought battles far and wide. As a result he has developed a warrior's pride. He was irritated by your defiance and refusal to accept his word as law, but you were right not to. The Riders of Berk should do more to help the innocent; to protect those families who cannot defend themselves.' His voice was harsh and laced with disappointment. It was a recurring attitude when he mentioned the Riders of Berk.

'His pride aside,' commented Brendan lightly, 'I don't think calling him a coward helped.'

'No,' chuckled Hiccup, 'No, it didn't. You're probably the first man to ever call Bold a coward. But what really pricked his ire was when you mistook him for me.'

'Really?' Hiccup nodded, smirking.

'He's a proud man and a born warrior; to get mistook for a crippled blacksmith was bound to anger him.' Brendan stared at him incredulously. A little more than a simple crippled blacksmith, he thought wryly. After Hiccup had saved him from Bold's violence they had spent the remains of the light of day in the Viking forge. Hiccup had work to complete before they could settle down and discuss business, so Brendan had patiently sat and watched Hiccup in his natural habitat. He was a master of the craft; gracefully dancing between working the bellows, heating the furnace and hammering at burning metals, shaping them into marvels beyond Brendan's recognition. Whenever he was interrupted by an inquiring customer, they were always met with a polite smile and kind words, especially any children who were frequently caught peeking through the entrance to spy on him.

Brendan had attempted to offer a helping hand, but after another display of his bumbling ineptitude, where he'd narrowly avoided being set alight by the searing furnace; he'd had been asked by a laughing Hiccup to stay well clear. Brendan had settled to exploring the small forge; inspecting the beautifully crafted weaponry, forged from strong steel and ornately decorated with sprawling runes. He'd never seen such fine swords, and was confident that they could even rival the blades fashioned by the Franks; a kingdom widely known for fashioning kingly swords. He also found a small den nestled behind thick fur drapes, filled with skins illustrated with runes and sketched images. When asked about them, Hiccup had explained cryptically that they were new designs he was working on. Unfortunately he had been too distracted by incoming requests to offer a more detailed description; more ships were arriving by the hour bearing crews and dignitaries looking to bolster their reputation by seeking Hiccup's talents. Brendan couldn't understand how the young Viking possessed such modesty.

'But you're a hero?' he insisted. Hiccup smiled bitterly,

'Trust me Brendan,' he said quietly, 'I'm no hero!'

'Says the man whose legend has reached distant shores…'

'Says the blacksmith who just wants to be left in peace so he can perfect his craft,' Hiccup said sternly, lightly chastising Brendan for his probing insistence. The Irishman flushed. Silence fell between them, until Hiccup shook his head wearily,

'I'm sorry; I shouldn't have spoken so harshly. I've always had difficulties accepting what people think of me, this foolish notion that I'm a hero. It's absurd.'

'But surely there's a story behind it? No man's born a hero!' Hiccup was quiet for a time, and seemed to be pondering his answer.

'There is a tale behind it,' he eventually said, 'but that can wait. Besides, I wouldn't want to deprive a skald of the chance to sing about it. I'm sure you'll get the opportunity, just hope that Bold isn't anywhere nearby. He hates that saga more than he hates me.' Brendan frowned. So Bold hated Hiccup. It explained the heated atmosphere between the two when they'd come face to face earlier today, and the mocking insults Bold had subjected him to.

'Why does he hate you?' asked Brendan tentatively. Hiccup smiled ruefully,

'Because I was born,' he replied simply, before swiftly changing the subject, 'But enough about me. Tell me about why you're here? You spoke of a war?'

'A war that's destroying my homeland,' Brendan confirmed, his expression turning grave, 'the land is stricken and my people live in terror. We were once ruled by a powerful warlord of the Ui-Neil dynasty; laws were upheld and justice administered fairly. But he was hungry for glory, and his reign was plagued by battle. It is rumoured he dreamed of reclaiming the ancient crown of the Irish High-Kings, an ambition that overreached his capabilities. Three summers ago he marshalled his warriors and marched against the enemies of the Ui-Neil, where his luck ran sour and he was killed on the battlefield. What followed was chaos.' Brendan paused and glanced at his audience; Hiccup was watching him curiously; but he remained quiet, waiting patiently for the priest to continue, 'There was always a rivalry between the sons of the Ui-Neil; but since their father's death they have waged a bitter contest for the throne. The local chiefs and lords have split into warring factions, whilst roving bands of leaderless men haunt the forests, preying on the weak. It's bad. I've been sheltered from it all my life, but as the season's pass there are more victims displaced by horror waiting for help at our gates.' He finished abruptly, silenced by a wave of memories. He'd often climb the cloisters of his monastery to see the distant fires of burning villages rising over the swathing forests on the horizon. He remembered the fear; the fear of waiting for these lawless warriors to reach their monastery, bringing fire and drawn swords. He shivered.

'It sounds terrible,' Hiccup agreed quietly, 'but you say you were sheltered; why?'

'Christian priests often live in communities based around a holy shrine,' answered Brendan, 'we live an austere lifestyle; providing healing and shelter for those who can't protect themselves.'

'What made you choose such a life?' the young Viking asked curiously. Brendan shrugged,

'I didn't really have much choice. I've lived there for as long as can I remember; since I was a small boy. I have no memories of the time before that.'

'So this wasn't your vocation, to become a Christian holy man?'

'No it's just all I've ever known,' he admitted, 'it felt like the right thing to do; a sensible calling…' Hiccup smiled at him,

'That explains a lot.' Brendan frowned at the mysterious smile on his friends face, but chose not to dwell on it. Hiccup was a private man, who preferred to guard his thoughts and beliefs behind an impenetrable shield of courtesy. If he judged that a subject should remain private, then no one would be able to entice the secret from him. They had already discussed Brendan's religion during the long hours spent in the forge, and the priest had been pleasantly surprised at Hiccup's interest in Christianity. He had explained how his religion had been brought to Ireland by Palladius Patricus, a man ordained by the Pope of Rome to carry the faith to those who still worshipped the pagan ways. That was many centuries ago, and still men sought to escape the temptations of the secular world to find a more ascetic lifestyle as a Christian holy man. Now Ireland was covered in networks of monastic settlements; centres of scholarship and learning that spread light into the dark margins of the ancient Roman world. Many saints had hailed from Brendan's homeland, and Irish priests were honoured guests in all of courts of Christian Europe. Hiccup had been intrigued by Brendan's explanation of his religion, and the priest had briefly thought he could convert the Viking blacksmith. But when Brendan had voiced the possibility, Hiccup had merely laughed and politely declined, declaring that he was perfectly content with worshipping his own Gods, though he admitted that he believed the White Christ held much power. Brendan had noticed him rub a small hammer charm tied around his neck as he stayed loyal to his gods.

Shrugging dismissively, Brendan continued his tale, pushing aside thoughts of the fire and death that had plagued his nightmares since childhood.

'All the death, pain and grief is the reason I'm here. Many people see no end to the wars, and no way of bringing about a lasting peace.'

'Except you?'

'Except me,' he nodded, 'I've always loved hearing the old tales; of ancient champions doing heroic deeds. Tales of the greatest Irish hero Cu-Chulainn astride his chariot; of Fionn mac Cumhail and his band of loyal warriors, the Fianna. I was often beaten for studying such stories, for they speak of an era before the light of our Lord came to Ireland. But I have few regrets, for they sparked a flame of determination in me; to leave the sanctuary of my home and search for a hero capable of bringing peace to my people.' He watched Hiccup but again the blacksmith gave nothing away, although he did appear saddened by the state of Brendan's homeland. He took another swill of water from his horn flask, content to wait. He'd finished his tale; he could do nothing more to persuade Hiccup that his presence was needed.

'I'm not who you think I am,' breathed Hiccup suddenly. He sounded generally aggrieved.

'Then tell me who you are,' argued Brendan insistently, 'tell me your tale, and I will judge whether it is legendary!' The blacksmith remained conflicted for a moment. But then, as the silence extended and Brendan began to think that he had retreated back into his impenetrable visage, Hiccup began to speak.

'It was nothing,' he said quietly, uneasy with discussing this particular topic. Brendan smiled, his intrigue soaring. But before he could shift into a more comfortable position to hear the tale, a voice spoke from the dark surroundings,

'He's been modest.' Both young men spun around, startled by the interruption but recognising the voice immediately as a short, slender figure emerged from the night. It was Camicazi. She was wrapped in a bulky cloak as she strode forwards and sat down by the hearth fire, not waiting for an invite from Hiccup before she began picking at any remaining scraps of food left from their earlier meal. Chewing noisily, she eyed Hiccup sarcastically, 'because slaying a dragon the size of an island to save his tribe isn't heroic at all; no, just a nuisance really. Just like scratching at an irritating itch really…'

Hiccup smiled uncomfortably, flushing slightly as Brendan's eyes widened. A dragon the size of an Island? An impossible feat surely, and one of pure fantasy. But as the Viking's blush reddened under the Irishman's scrutiny, Brendan found himself gaping in disbelief.

'Hello Camicazi,' Hiccup drawled, 'I thought I smelt you lurking around in the dark.'

'Why is everyone saying that?' she said incredulously, 'I had this same argument with Thuggery; I almost ended up drowning him,'

'Your hatred for bathing is infamous,' chuckled Hiccup, and Camicazi threw a handful of gristly meat at him. He avoided it easily, his chuckle becoming a full blown laugh.

'I bathe,' she grumbled, glancing at Brendan and narrowing her eyes. The priest stared mockingly back at her,

'Just not as regularly as you should,' Hiccup finished, smiling at the Bog heiress. They shared a long forged bond. Growing up on Berk, he'd had a lonely childhood, often bullied or ignored by his peers. That always changed when Camicazi arrived, accompanying her mother on a trading mission. As they were both heirs to tribal chieftains, they'd been thrown together at an early age; where they became as thick as thieves. Whist Hiccup supplied the cunning brains, Camicazi had provided the daring brawn; a lethal combination that had raised the ire of many of the locals on numerous occasions. That they both struggled to free themselves from the overbearing shadow of their parent's reputations was another unspoken cause for their alliance, 'I heard about your Oar-Dance; very spectacular. Such a display of martial prowess. It's truly worthy of a song; though you broke the hearts of many when you failed to fall in and rid us all of that awful stench.'

'You reek of jealousy?' sneered Camicazi good-naturedly,

'Always,' agreed Hiccup with a returning smile, 'though I'm insulted at your insinuation that I '_reek_'; especially when you stink like a hog.' Brendan laughed, earning him a brooding scowl from the Bog heiress, which he quickly mirrored. Her failure to intervene during Bold's attack brought a buried rage boiling to the fore. As the trio lapsed into silence, Brendan and Camicazi continued to glare angrily at each other. Hiccup, reading the situation with a keen eye, sat back and waited for it to play out. In all their childhood years together he'd never seen Camicazi look at someone with as much loathing as she displayed now. It amused him.

Time passed at an excruciating pace, and the glares became even more heated as both refused to back down. Surprisingly, it was Camicazi who broke first,

'You blame me for what happened?' she spat, grasping for the reason behind Brendan's anger.

'Not for what happened,' the priest shot back, 'I have enough sense to recognise my own folly. I blame you for not intervening!'

'What,' she cried indignantly, 'you think I should have intervened?'

'Yes,' said Brendan stubbornly, 'I am your guest. I thought Viking honour dictated that an attack on me is essentially an attack on you?'

'Do not speak to me of honour,' snarled Camicazi, 'don't you dare disrespect the honour I bestowed on you when I allowed you to take a place on my ship. You were the one that marched recklessly in and insulted Bold Bjornson to his face!'

'He was brave to do so,' interjected Hiccup calmly, having watched the argument unfold in amusement, 'Not that many warriors would have the courage to face Bold when his wrath is upon him, let alone dispute his word. Our friend here impressed many folk with his earlier display.' Brendan gaped at Hiccup who was smiling at him, ignoring the sulking scowl Camicazi levelled at her childhood friend's subtle chastising. Recognising that her argument was lost for now, she slumped dejectedly, before glancing at Brendan,

'I wanted to intervene,' she admitted quietly. When she saw the sceptical look on the priest's face her expression hardened, 'honestly I did; I was about to intervene when Leg-less over here rescued you.' Hiccup grinned at the name she gave him. It had been her favourite moniker for him since he'd lost his leg in battle. He always thought she was rather jealous of the wound, as it was a symbol of his bravery, whilst the most lasting scar Camicazi had ever received was a spanked arse after being caught mid-prank by her mother. The Bog heiress regularly insisted hers was worse.

'It would have been too late,' Brendan responded harshly, before frowning as Camicazi reddened slightly,

'I know,' she said desolately, before adding, 'besides, I had more pressing issues subduing the rippling effects of your stupidity. You almost caused a riot when the girls found out what had happened. They were all for finding Bold and castrating him; I only managed to calm them by swearing I would seek retribution on your behalf. They've become quite protective of you.' This stunned Brendan. It must have shown on his expression because Hiccup laughed and even Camicazi smiled. He couldn't comprehend this reaction. He had thought the Bog women despised him, finding him lacking as a man. To discover that they wished to mutilate a Viking warrior who had public harangued him caused a wave of affection to wash over him. He felt pleased, honoured by it; though admittedly their zeal for castrating a man so readily alarmed him.

'Oh,' he mumbled softly, 'I suppose I should thank them.' Camicazi shrugged, watching him curiously

'There's no need; I'm sure they know already.' Hiccup smiled at the humble exchange.

'Of course they do,' supplied Hiccup, before winking at the Irishman, 'so you have a band of loyal warrior women at your back, Brendan the Brave; the world is now yours to conquer…ouch' He stopped abruptly when Camicazi punched his arm, though she was chuckling.

'Because one reckless act makes him Brendan the Brave,' she said, rolling her eyes.

'Carrying a bow like that; I believe Brendan will have a lot more opportunities to display his bravery in future years,' Hiccup stated confidently, glancing at the long wooden instrument lying beside the Irishman. Camicazi turned, caught sight of the weapon and gaped, whilst Brendan reddened in embarrassment.

'That's no bow,' she whispered, having always believed that it was a simple quarter-staff. Yet as Brendan reached down and picked it up, unfurling the sodden cloth which had kept it dry whilst they sailed over the rolling ocean, her mouth dropped. Sat in the priest's hands was the largest bow she had ever seen. It was a huge thing, as tall as its owner and well suited to his awkward strength. She'd heard distant tales of such weapons, but had dismissed them as fantasy. She found herself muttering quietly, 'what is that?'

'A war-bow,' said Hiccup, as awed as his Viking companion. He longed to hold it in his skilled hands, to explore its design and examine how it was made. It was an aspect of his nature; his fascination at discovering how such weapons worked. He'd heard of these great bows; how they took years of dedication and practice to master. To find such a talent stored within the broad frame of an awkward Irish priest was a delightful surprise, 'just look at it; how did you come across such a bow?'

'I made it,' admitted Brendan bashfully, especially when Hiccup turned to stare at him in admiration, 'the abbot of my monastery insisted that I learn the art. He paid a local huntsman to teach me the skill. He never explained why, and whenever I pressed him he would merely smile and tell me that he believed it was a talent I may find useful for the future.' Brendan frowned. His abbot had kept many secrets, hoarding them like a dragon would treasure. It had infuriated the younger priest, especially when those secrets concerned him. His attention returned to his two companions, who were both engaged in a debate over the merits of such a weapon.

'Just think of the strength needed to draw that bow; the power behind it. You could slay a boar with a single arrow,' insisted Hiccup,

'I doubt it,' said Camicazi sceptically,

'What!' cried Hiccup, 'Look at the size of that thing? It's taller than Brendan…'

'Still; like most bows it'll be useless in the shield-wall,'

'It can pierce mail,' said Brendan quietly, 'well, if the arrow is fired close enough to the target anyhow.' His two companions looked astounded,

'No arrow can pierce well forged mail,' scowled Camicazi. Brendan shrugged in response whilst Hiccup looked thoughtful,

'I wonder,' he mused, 'I suppose its success would lie in the shape and type of metal used for the arrowheads. Forged well I believe it could puncture even the strongest mail; maybe even a dragon's scales.' He appeared worried by the thought. Camicazi and Brendan glanced at each other, both bemused by Hiccup's behaviour. After a moment Camicazi broke the silence, eying the weapon in Brendan's hands with distaste,

'I don't like archery,' she said, 'there's no honour in killing a man with an arrow loosed from a safe distance. Not like with a sword. You can kill a man up close with a blade; feel their blood spurting over your hand and hear his last gasping breath.' She traced a finger over her engraved sword hilt, smiling wickedly at Brendan, whose familiar expression of revulsion was lost upon the fiery maiden.

'Archery is a noble pursuit,' countered Hiccup patiently, unmoved by his childhood friend's violent nature, 'many of the greatest Viking warriors have found fame with a bow. Even Bold is reputed to be a fine bowman. I also use one; but my bow is a shorter design to that beast you carry Brendan, and more adept for mounted combat. Besides, your preference for swordplay Camicazi stems from your lack of patience when it came to perfecting a skill as delicate as archery. Or maybe it's just because you're a brute.' Camicazi stuck her tongue out at him, before threatening to punch him again. Brendan laughed at their antics, intrigued by their childish banter. Their friendship seemed genuine, and the Irishman noticed how Camicazi seemed more relaxed in his presence than she ever did in the company of her fellow Bogs.

'So why has the Althing been called?' Camicazi pierced his thoughts. Hiccup's smile slowly disappeared, his features turning serious. He observed them silently for a moment, as if judging them both.

'I am not supposed to tell anyone this,' he said, 'I'll need you to swear to me that both of you will keep this secret; for I have been forbidden by the Council to speak of the reason behind this Althing,'

'Would I?' exclaimed Camicazi, feigning hurt. Hiccup scowled at her,

'I'm being serious Cami,' he said sternly, 'you have the voice of a mating bullock and would most likely tell the first person you swapped mead with, however accidently. Before I tell you anything, you must swear to keep this secret. It will only be for a while, everyone will discover the cause of it soon enough, and rumours have already broken loose amongst the tribes. But I wish to avoid any unwanted alarm.' Hiccup's two companion's regarded him silently before they swore to not speak of this in public, though Camicazi was scowling at being compared to a mating bullock. Brendan waited in suspense for Hiccup's tale to begin. Helldora had told him of the Althing; a great council attended by all the tribes of the Archipelago and only called when facing an unprecedented challenge. No Althing had been called in generations; even when the dragon raids were at their worst. Discovering the reason for such a meeting was a tantalising prospect.

'A king sails from the east,' Hiccup said finally, startling both his companions.

'A king?' they both asked at the same time. Hiccup nodded, smiling sadly,

'Yes a king; he sails here with a fleet of warriors to offer us a treaty. That is why the Althing has been called.'

'A whole fleet of ships?' frowned Camicazi, 'seems extravagant for a simple treaty?'

'As does the presence of the king himself,' replied Hiccup in agreement, 'but the fleet will never make it to Berk. This king will only be allowed a full ship's crew of men to accompany him ashore, to honour him as our guest. If he tries anything, he'll find that he's horribly outnumbered and outmatched.'

'You don't trust him?' said Brendan, and Hiccup shrugged,

'I've never met him,' he admitted, 'but we have no reason to trust his word. No king showed interest in these island's whilst we warred with the dragons; we were deemed too risky for such a venture. But now; with peace reigning and lucrative trade booming with rare exports. We would be a worthy jewel in any monarch's crown.'

'So you believe he has thoughts of conquest?' asked Camicazi, her fiery temper beginning to spark.

'He'll hide his real desires behind wealthy gifts and oaths of lifelong friendship, but yes I have my suspicions concerning his true desire,' said Hiccup casually, 'ever since we received his messenger I have travelled far; scouting for information on this king. I returned a few days ago after only discovering rumours.'

'An eastern King you say?'

'Norse,' he nodded, 'the Danes are sailing for the shores of the Saxon Kingdom's in droves, and the Swedes spread across the snowy wildernesses of the Rus. But the Norse have been targeting the northern seas for years now. It is they who raid and pillage your homeland Brendan.' The Irishman nodded in understanding. Norse raiders were a curse on God's followers, preying on his people in their helplessness. They may have brought long-ports and unrivalled commerce to the Irish people, but it was built upon blood and misery. He crossed himself, feeling the Irish hatred for the Norse storm through his blood.

'His name is Erik White-bear. He is an ageing man, but he was once a great warrior. It is rumoured he slew a great white bear in the icy wastes of his kingdom, and that he now wears the beasts skin as a cloak. He was once a powerful ruler of a mighty dynasty, but his influence has waned. He sought to extend his legacy, and so led an army to the shores of the Painted Tribes in northern Britain…'

'I've heard of this,' interrupted Brendan excitedly, 'The Scot's originated from my homeland, and we have kept an interest in their affairs. For instance, the sacred monastery of Iona is in Scottish territory, and is the mother house of all our religious places. He was defeated wasn't he?'

'Soundly,' said Hiccup, 'he expected little resistance, but the Scot's rallied together and chose a king amongst their own nobles to lead them. The battle raged for days, until the Norse were routed. It is rumoured the White-bear was fortunate to survive, escaping with only a scar down his face to remember the encounter. He left his eldest son dead on those bleak shores, slaughtered with over half his army.'

'I heard a similar tale,' said Brendan smugly, causing Camicazi to scowl threateningly at him. It may have been the downfall of a King who probably wished to extend his rule to her homeland, but it had still resulted in the deaths of many brave Vikings. Brendan merely smiled, 'Not bad for us humble Celts?'

'I wouldn't know,' she growled warningly, 'every Celt I've ever met is either dead or pissing their breeches in fear at my return.' Brendan's smug grin vanished and he scowled back. He chose not to comment again and allowed Hiccup to continue,

'As I was saying,' grimaced Hiccup, 'he lost a lot in that foolish quest over a decade ago, and he has only just regained most of it. The rumours say that he wants to raise another army and revenge himself on the Scottish dynasty that defeated him. Others say he seeks easier prey to extend his power to, and what easier targets are there than tribal colonies on the fringes of the world who are small in number and still recovering from their own war.'

'So he either wants us to support him; to swear an oath to fight for him or he's sailing to conquer us and claim these islands as his?' asked Camicazi slowly,

'Those are my suspicions,' concluded Hiccup in agreement, grimacing at the thought of it coming to war. Brendan looked puzzled,

'You said he sail's with a fleet at his back. Why bother attending the Althing at all? Why not just spring a surprise attack and kill you all whilst you're gathered in the same place?'

'The thought had crossed my mind,' acknowledged Hiccup, 'but he won't. Like you he has heard of the legends about this place and it has made him wary in his old age, especially after he ignored the signs during that foolish campaign against the Scots. But as a precaution he will only be allowed one full ship's crew of warriors too accompany him. That should stem any ideas of exhibiting his martial prowess. They will arrive in the morning, then he can speak at the Althing, and leave it to us to decide our fate.' His words left a foreboding chill in the atmosphere, one that couldn't be displaced by the warmth of the hearth fire. Brendan sat in contemplation, his mind whirling with these new developments. Camicazi looked like she would carve out this king's heart and eat it if he ever dared harm her tribe.

'Who will ride out to give this White-bear our conditions?' she asked, hoping that Hiccup would give her the chance; she had a few choice words she'd like to say to this king. The blacksmith smiled warmly at her.

'Not you Camicazi,' he told her, 'we want White-bear to arrive alive and unhurt, not dead by your hand. On my advice, the Council have nominated the two best suited to act as our messengers.'

'Who?'

'Fishlegs and Astrid…' The fallout was immediate,

'Astrid!' cried Camicazi incredulously, 'you picked that bitch…'

'Camicazi,' Hiccup tried to calm her, but she ignored him. Her anger was inflamed, shocking Brendan with the heat of her passion. He watched wide eyed as Camicazi leapt to her feet, hands clenched and trembling.

'Why choose them?' she fumed, 'why choose _her_?'

'You know fully well the reasoning behind it. Both are intimidating people, Fishleg's for his size and Astrid for her skill. Both are Riders of Berk. They are both shrewd and do not anger easily. They will do their duty well and I trust their judgement…'

'Trust,' screeched Camicazi hysterically, 'how can you trust her after what she did to _you_?'

'ENOUGH,' snarled Hiccup fiercely and with such vehemence that it stunned both his companions into silence. Camicazi almost quailed before it. Never had she witnessed such piercing rage levelled at her, not from her bumbling childhood friend. That he contained such fury unnerved her. Brendan just sat speechless, gaping up at the blacksmith. The rage that had masked Hiccup's features soon fled, leaving only a look of weathered stone, 'I would have thought after all these years you would trust my judgement Cami, like I've always trusted the strength of your arm. Would you recommend we send somebody as hot tempered as Bold? No? Astrid was my choice, leave it be.'

'I still don't like her,' mumbled Camicazi mutinously, slumping back into a sitting position.

'And I doubt she likes you,' said Hiccup harshly, 'you fought her into a stalemate all those years ago the same as she did you. It was a sign of the prowess you both contain, so get over your childish feud and stop squabbling; if not for my sake then for that of the Archipelago's. Our tribes may need you to fight together, to stand side by side.' He sighed when he finished, rubbing his face in his hands. Camicazi was scowling at the ground, fiddling with a straw of grass and refusing to look at her old friend. She knew he was right; Gods he was rarely bloody wrong. But she couldn't help the anger she felt towards Astrid. Yes it stemmed from their juvenile brawl, when as girls they had fought each other into a stalemate, both unable to find a weakness to exploit. But it was the girl's treatment of Hiccup that had twisted that anger into a malicious dislike. Hiccup did not mention it, and never had done. But Camicazi knew the hurt was there all the same, and for that she could never forgive Astrid. She glanced at Brendan and found the priest watching her curiously, completely astounded at what he'd just witnessed. Her face flushed slightly in embarrassment.

'So,' she grumbled softly, attempting to hide her face behind the hanging bangs of her fair hair so that Brendan could not see her flaming cheeks, 'where's that dragon of yours? I haven't seen him since I arrived.' Hiccup looked up and suddenly smiled mischievously, welcoming the reprieve from Viking politics,

'He's right next to you.' Camicazi frowned and turned around, only to find a pair of green eyes seemingly hovering in the dark. She shrieked in fright at the reptile's sudden appearance, its black scales blending easily with the surrounding night and shrouding its powerful frame. Her cry alerted Brendan to the beast's presence and he cried out shrilly, his eyes widening at the dragon's proximity. He went to scoot away but found his escape impeded by Camicazi, who had leapt up and landed on him, driving the breath from his body and grabbing hold of his hand, squeezing it in alarm. Overwhelmed by panic they thought the dragon would descend on them, but when Brendan opened his eyes he discovered that the beast hadn't moved, but was merely watching them with a jovial expression, his toothless maw smirking at his rider's two companions. Realising that the beast had played a prank on them, Brendan slowly straightened, only to be hampered by Camicazi's clutching frame. Their eyes met, then after a pause they both looked down at the heap of tangled limbs. They soon scrambled apart, their hands unclasping as Camicazi shoved the unfortunate priest away from her. Their faces turned an even brighter shade of red. A muffled chuckle pierced their mortification, and they both turned to discover Hiccup and his dragon smirking at them with identical grins,

'Well that was awkward,' the blacksmith said dryly.

'That was unnecessary,' objected Brendan, frowning at the dragon before him. Hiccup shrugged,

'Toothless prefers a grand entrance.'

'Stupid dragon,' muttered Camicazi behind clenched teeth, 'why does he always have to do that to me?'

'It's not his fault he's naturally stealthy,' mocked Hiccup, 'he's been behind you this entire time. If you don't notice him then maybe the fault lies with you Cami; who would have thought such a fearless warrior could cry so loud.' Camicazi appeared to be on the verge of stabbing him, the presence of a fearsome dragon be damned. Brendan could do no more than stare meekly at the beast now lounging tiredly beside Hiccup,

'So this is your dragon?' asked Brendan in wonder, turning his full attention to Hiccup like a small child waiting for a skald's story.

'As the first Rider of Berk I would have assumed you knew I ride a dragon?'

'You never mentioned it,'

'I saw no reason too,' the blacksmith shrugged, 'and besides, he won't like being called an '_it_','

'He?'

'Yes,' insisted Hiccup 'this is Toothless and he is a Night Fury; the fiercest of all the known dragon species. The most pompous as well isn't that right you big, posing...' Toothless lifted his tail and cuffed the rider with a soft sweep of the great, scaly limb. Hiccup rubbed his sore head, eying the beast ruefully. Toothless sniggered before laying his head down and returning to observe them with half lidded eyes. Brendan felt unnerved by its unconcerned stare, wondering if anything actually escaped the dragon's attention.

'This is the dragon of legend; the beast whose feared in many kingdoms?' the Irishman mused, 'and his name is Toothless?'

'Stupid name,' mumbled Camicazi, but was swiftly quelled by a glance from the large beast.

'Don't blame me I was just a child when we met,' laughed Hiccup, tracing a lazy hand over the dragon's jaded scales and causing the beast to purr, 'but trust me; Toothless suits him better than names like Flame-fell or Shadow-wing.' Brendan would have to disagree. When he imagined dragons one of the main characteristics that came to mind were jaws lined with razor sharp teeth. To discover that the most feared dragon in the northern world was toothless and currently purring contently at the hands of his owner was a surprising sight. The memory of Camicazi shrieking suddenly flooded his mind and he laughed aloud, grinning at the blushing warrior beside him,

'I thought you were supposed to be fearless…ouch!' She punched him, this time aiming for his shoulder before storming to her feet. She glared at the two young men with her hands fixed to her hips in what she hoped was an intimidating fashion,

'If I even hear that you've mentioned this I'll, I'll, I'll…'

'Stun them with your startling vocabulary?' inquired Brendan tentatively, though there was a large grin on his face. Hiccup guffawed,

'You know I really appreciate having another educated mind around; it's a welcome change.' Camicazi huffed at the jibe,

'Don't make me break you,' she warned, glancing at Brendan so that he knew the threat applied to him also. Then she spun on her heels and strode off into the night. In the silence that followed Camicazi's departure the two men exchanged looks, then both laughed. Hiccup shook his head in admiration,

'Your White Christ must be a powerful God for you to worm out of Cami's wrath so effortlessly,'

'You're not the first to tell me that,' Brendan agreed, watching Camicazi's retreating back as it disappeared towards her mother's holding. He unconsciously rubbed his bruising shoulder. How he escaped her fiery temper he did not know, and could only describe it as one of God's many miracles. Camicazi was a mystery to him, and one he was sure he would never understand. Yawning, Hiccup stretched his limbs and lurched to his feet, brushing crumbs from their earlier meal off his tunic before turning to regard Brendan with a smile,

'Well Brendan, my beds calling me,' he said, but did not move. Instead, he laid a hand on Brendan's shoulder and clasped it tightly. Brendan winced as fingers dug in to the spreading bruise but found his eyes fixed on Hiccup, whose own face had turned solemn, 'I know there's a lot you refuse to tell me Brendan, and I can understand the necessity of keeping your own secrets. One day I am sure you will trust me enough to finish your tale, as I believe that our friendship is sincere. But you can trust my word on this; I will swear an oath to help you; an oath that I will do all in my power to aid the plight of your people. But I must remain for the Althing. I am uneasy by presence of Erik White-Bear in these seas, and I believe that we are on the precipice of a new era. Whether the coming age is one of peace and splendour or of blood and war I cannot tell. But once this is dealt with and my home is secure, then Toothless and I will be at your command and we'll see what we can do with these sons of the Ui-Neil.' His speech grew to a close, and Brendan found himself almost moved to tears by the sincerity of Hiccup's tone. He was in the presence of a mighty man, he understood that now; this was a man who would change the world they lived in and who would commit his life to protecting those who could not defend themselves. He raised a hand and grasped Hiccup's own in a strong grip,

'Thank you,' he said earnestly. Hiccup just smiled before releasing Brendan,

'I'll see you in the morning, you can find some skins and pelts to keep you warm, and if you feel peckish there is food and rainwater to spare. Now get some sleep; we have a busy day ahead tomorrow and we will need to keep our wits about us.' Brendan watched his friend retire to his sleeping chamber, leaving the Irishman alone with Toothless the dragon. He peered nervously at the beast, but it appeared to already be asleep, growling softly with every purring breath. Sighing in relief, he gathered up some of the offered pelts and settled down. It had been a hectic day and it had taken its toll on the young priest. Sleep overtook him swiftly.

As he slept peacefully by the dying hearth fire, he failed to notice a shadowy shape creeping silently through the gloom. It glanced at Brendan's sleeping form as it passed, before moving on towards the dragon whose dark frame guarded the homestead's entrance. Green eyes blinked in the night as the phantom neared, then smirked, bending low so that the spectre could mount. Sitting astride the Night Fury, the rider buckled a broad sword to his hip and grabbed a large spear leaning against the wattle frame. He looked out towards where the moon shone bright above them. The stars sparkled as the rider muttered a swift word of encouragement and the Night Fury spread its wings, shooting out into the sky like a bolt from a bow. Whilst his tribe slept, Hiccup had work to do; a king was at their doorstep with a fleet of warriors at his back. Hiccup would watch them closely, and if they had come to conquer; would do what was needed to protect his people.


	4. Chapter 4: The Company of Heroes

**The Company of Heroes**

_The sun was setting on the horizon, where distant swells of black smoke soared into the dimming sky. Another village burned, its people slaughtered by warriors with no honour. Brendan watched it burn, the dark plumes rising above the forest that lay between that unfortunate place and his monastery's boundaries. One day the warring sons of the Ui-Neil will have the daring to march and plunder these centres of faith and learning, displacing more refugees to the savages that plagued the world. Instead of defending their shores against sea-born raiders or invading warriors from neighbouring tribes, they make war on their own people. His hand clenched into a fist, turning white with his fury. He may have been taught the ways of peace, but he could not quell the anger that roared to life and begged him to take his war-bow and visit death upon those that bathed their spears in blood. _

_ 'You wish to harm them, don't you my son,' His abbot's wearied voice reached him from the cloisters. The idea repulsed Brendan; he felt shamed by it._

_ 'I do father,' he admitted regretfully. The abbot sighed, before gently placing a hand on the younger priests shoulder. For a moment they stared out over the surrounding land; the land that their ancestors had farmed; spilt blood for and raised to glory in an age of heroes. Now it was brought low, threatened by internal turmoil. The abbot closed his eyes,_

_ 'I have a task for you,' he said finally; Brendan turned to look at him curiously, 'a task that would suit the wander lust in your soul that refuses to fade. Come, first I have to tell you of your heritage Brendan; of how you came to be here and where your fate will take you...' _

Brendan woke to silence. His bleary eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom and he realised that the hearth was empty, the embers from the previous night's fire still smouldering dimly in the ashes. For a moment Brendan just revelled being back on firm soil. He would no longer have to tolerate the constant swell of the volatile waves beneath him. Yawning widely, he pulled off the skins he'd wrapped around him and rose to his feet, scrutinising the settlement he woke in. It was larger than most of the homesteads on Berk; its stout timber frames carved with miniature dragons. A large antlered skull hung above the entrance way, as wide as a man and most likely imported, thinking it unlikely that such great elks survived on an island where the presence of Viking's was so close. A kingly gift. On another timber hung weapons similar to those found in Hiccup's forge, kept in pristine condition though scars littered them, a testament to their ancient age. On another sat a conical helmet, with two curving bull horns resplendent on either side. Brendan examined it closely. Surely it would be impractical to use such a helmet in battle, as the horns would limit its bearers reach and ability to raise his arms in a powerful strike. He concluded that it must have been forged for ritual use, to be worn in a religious ceremony instead of functioning as protection during war.

A roar from the entrance startled him, disturbing his exploration. He hesitated, remembering the beast that must have uttered the sound. Summoning his courage, he edged towards the entrance and ducked below its low frame and into the sunlight. Rubbing at sore eyes, he discovered Hiccup stood beside Toothless, scratching at the dragon's scaly neck, causing the dragon to hum in pleasure. With the sun blazing, Brendan beheld the Night Fury in all its glory. He was smaller than many of the dragon's he had witnessed the previous day, but the limbs of taut muscle resonated with the creature's potential power and speed. His tail was thick and serpentine, though a sheet of skin on its forked tip had been replaced by a man-made instrument of iron and scarlet leather. He was a legendary steed, fit for a hero; though Brendan recognised that there was more to these two companions than the usual relationship between mount and rider. Observing them, the priest could tell they shared a bond of mutual love and respect. It made Brendan smile.

It was Toothless who noticed him first, letting out a soft growl of warning to his rider. Hiccup swept off the nightmarish helmet that masked his features.

'Morning,' he smiled, rustling his drenched hair. Grime and dry sweat coated his face as if he'd been wearing the helmet for many hours,

'Where have you been?' Brendan inquired curiously,

'Felt like a morning fly,' he commented with a shrug, 'Toothless hasn't been able to spread his wings since we returned.' The dragon glanced at his rider before rolling his eyes and trudging towards a wicker basket full of potent smelling fish, which he instantly began to demolish with zest. Hiccup chuckled, shaking his head at his draconian companion's antics, 'Always the fish first.'

'Do you usually fly fully armed?' asked Brendan perceptively. Hiccup stilled for a moment,

'Trust me,' he said, 'this isn't my war-gear; just some protection if we have an accident during the flight, like a fall or if we meet a stray dragon.' He hefted a great spear and leant it against the homestead's daubed walls, before unbuckling his belt; Brendan noticed a scabbarded sword attached to it. Hiccup picked up a bundled cloth filled with smoked fish and threw it to Brendan,

'Here,' he said, beginning to shrug off the padded leather jerkin he was wearing. Brendan fully obliged, his appetite roaring into existence. After greedily chewing down a couple of strips of the oily fish, he noticed Toothless glaring at him with the wicker basket now empty and discarded. His lime coloured eyes were following the strips swinging in Brendan's hand, his tongue licking his scaly lips. Sighing in resignation, knowing he was outmatched, the Irishman passed the beast the food he craved. After sniffing distastefully at the smoked condition of the meal, a row of teeth suddenly sprouted from nowhere and gulped it down. Brendan grimaced at the scene, before grumbling as the dragon collapsed in a contented heap, to stretch languidly and soak up the sunlight. Hiccup laughed when he heard Brendan grumble about the thievery of dragons,

'You should try eels,' he advised. Brendan frowned,

'I hate eels,' he said in disgust,

'So do dragons, Toothless included. So if you'd like to eat peacefully with him around then learn to eat an eel or two.' Brendan cursed at the unfairness of it all, before redirecting his attention towards his friend, who was now folding his flying tunic neatly beside the weapons he'd carried.

'So how goes our king from the east. You said he would be here by morning?' Hiccup paused, looking at Brendan with a wry smile,

'You miss nothing do you?'

'What can I say, I have the eyes of a hawk…'

'Or just more common sense than I gave you credit for,' Hiccup chuckled, 'I was scouting, like I have done these last few nights. I wanted to determine progress of this king, and discover where his fleet had harboured. We have nothing to fear, I wasn't noticed. Toothless is practically invisible during the night.'

'When do you expect them to arrive?' Brendan asked. A loud horn call stopped Hiccup from answering. It trumpeted into the air; echoing over the village and bouncing off the rocky walls of the harboured cove, shocking flocks of sea birds into flight. After a brief pause the horn called again, louder and hailing from the large watchtower that overlooked the cove and offered a significant vantage point of the surrounding seas. Hiccup smiled grimly,

'Now,' he commented lightly, before turning and pacing towards his home. He glanced at Brendan over his shoulder, 'hold on a moment, I just need to wash then I'll be right with you.' He disappeared into the homestead's gloom. Brendan waited idly for the young Viking to return, choosing to examine the lounging Night Fury beside him with a more critical eye. Though he had the countenance of a fearsome monster, the dragon's behaviour was oddly feline; from the bright green orbs to the way he lazily groomed his scales. It made the Irishman chuckle, though when one eye flickered open to glare at him suspiciously he stopped, chocking awkwardly. Fortunately Hiccup returned soon after, seemingly refreshed and dressed in one of the humble tunics he seemed to favour. Beckoning for Brendan to join him, he bid a quick farewell to Toothless and sped off towards the cove at a surprisingly sprightly pace for a man with only one leg. They weaved through the crowd of Vikings dashing towards the cliff's summit, curious about the loud horn call blaring out its warning. Bemusement and confusion marred many of the faces Brendan passed, though they were also tinged with nervousness. During his travels he had discovered that many Viking's held a fear of the unknown; a fear of what fate the three Norn's were weaving for them. Brendan gulped; he sincerely hoped they would not have to fear the consequences of this king's visit.

It didn't take long for them to reach the cliff's summit, although Hiccup was limping considerably from the strain on his severed limb. However, he refused to admit it, and made no mention of how much it ailed him; ignoring the sore ache to push through the crowd gathering at the watchtower's foot. They parted for him, allowing Brendan to slip through in his wake. When nothing blocked their view they could see all the way from the waves caressing the rocks beneath them to the distant horizon across the sea; where a shadowy blur glided slowly towards them.

'So the White-bear is here,' commented a voice beside them, and Brendan turned to discover a huge man standing beside Hiccup. Brendan gaped. He thought he was tall, but this figure was colossal. He towered over the two young men, with a bulk to match is intimidating size. A helmet similar to the device Brendan had found in Hiccup's homestead topped his braided head. His voice was deeply guttural, emerging as a growl from the thick thatch of a tawny beard streaked with grey. Dark eyes peered out from behind strong features, staring out at the approaching ship.

'Did you send out Fishlegs and Astrid like I advised?'

'Yes, they left before dawn,' replied the giant, 'anything new you need to report?'

'No,' replied Hiccup, 'the White-bear's fleet is still anchored a safe distance away in a fjord on Peaceable island. They won't trouble us, well, they won't for the Althing anyway.' The huge Viking glanced at the smaller man, eyebrows raised.

'For the Althing?' he questioned and Hiccup shrugged, returning the larger man's look,

'He's a Norse king,' he reminded the man, 'glory and riches are all he wants. We are instruments to expand his power. I'd tread carefully with him.' The giant nodded and sighed, before he placed a large hand on Hiccup's shoulder,

'I'll need you beside me during the council lad, I trust your judgement more than any other here.' Hiccup stiffened at the praise, before smirking at the man,

'I'm your son,' said Hiccup wryly, 'where else do you think I'd be? Giving Gobber a massage or something.' The giant chuckled before leaving, trudging off towards the cove. Hiccup silently contemplated the vessel slipping across the sea towards them, though he soon realised that Brendan was watching him closely,

'Son?'

'Yes,' replied Hiccup, 'that was my father; Stoick the Vast, Chief of the Berk tribe.'

'Jesus,' Brendan gasped, staring after Stoick's retreating back, 'the man's bloody huge.' Hiccup laughed at his friend's reaction, but was interrupted by a loud screech above them. Looking up they saw two dragon's descending rapidly from the sky. Brendan saw the hulking rider from the previous day sat astride a boulder like dragon and guessed that he must be Fishlegs. The other rider was instantly recognisable; for the windswept golden locks framed the beautiful face of the woman who had attempted to calm Bold's temper and whose contempt still rankled the Irishman. So this was Astrid, he thought, as he followed Hiccup towards the two riders. The large broad-axe strapped to her back was another indicator to who its owner was; for Brendan couldn't imagine any other warrior he'd encountered being able to duel Camicazi to a standstill.

'Any news?' shouted Hiccup as they wove through the crowd. The woman looked up at their approach and seemed to hesitate when she recognised Hiccup limping towards her. The cool mask slipped into place as she dismounted and turned to meet them,

'We passed on the message like the Chief requested,' she said coldly, as her own dragon; a cerulean blue beast with threads of purple scales and lines of razor spikes rested contently behind her. Her tone was harsh, as if Hiccup had questioned her ability at conveying the important message to the king.

'We would have been back sooner,' called Fishlegs, 'but White-bear did not know the way to Berk, so we offered to guide his ship here…'

'But you already know that don't you,' growled the woman, glaring at Hiccup. They blacksmith returned her gaze just as coldly as Brendan rolled his eyes,

'So much for not being noticed,' he breathed, blanching when Astrid turned her glare on him. Her pale blue eyes narrowed in disdain at his presence, recognising him as the pathetic White Christ follower from the previous day.

'Astrid,' Hiccup said softly, regaining her attention. Brendan noticed how the woman's eyes softened momentarily when they landed on the blacksmith, 'you did well; but my father will be needing his huscarls close at hand now.' It was a subtle dismissal, and Astrid knew it. She stiffened, and then angrily strode past, barging into Hiccup's shoulder as she passed. Hiccup winced as the mail rivets from her armoured tunic bruised his skin, but he managed to step aside before he lost his balance. He refused to rise to the challenge, barely sparing her a glance. Brendan thought that maybe that was the initial intent behind her aggressive action; maybe she wanted him to fight back. She certainly seemed infuriated by his lack of response because she shouldered her broad-axe and marched stormily away, her dragon following closely behind. What had happened between Astrid and his friend, for them to act in such a way? He thought back to Hiccup's polite dismissal; deceptively harsh but Brendan was sure that there was a warning hidden behind his words, as if he was hinting that she'd need to be cautious in the coming days.

As Astrid walked away, Hiccup began conversing with Fishlegs, the two sharing a cordial friendship. Hiccup made an inquiring into how a girl called Hilde was doing, in which the hulking rider replied with a nervous smile that the pregnancy was progressing well and without cause for concern. They carried on for a moment in hushed tones before Fishlegs wandered off and Hiccup returned to watching the approaching vessel only to suddenly pause mid-stride. Brendan followed his gaze and discovered Bold Bjornson glaring hatefully at them, towering over the heads of the crowd. He was flanked by two fellow riders. Holding the taller man's gaze for a moment, Hiccup turned and ignored his presence. Bold's expression darkened, then became positively threatening when he noticed Brendan observing the scene. Seeing that the Viking was still furious with yesterday's events, Brendan swiftly joined Hiccup in his vigil.

'Learnt anything?' he asked. Hiccup smiled grimly,

'Nothing much. According to Fish, this Erik White-Bear has three score of men accompanying him, along with his heir, his brother and two of his greatest warriors. He mean's to impress us with his entourage; he certainly gave the Riders of Berk a courteous welcome, before ordering them to guide him to Berk like common karls. He's already testing his power and influence,' he sounded appalled by the behaviour, 'I want you to attend the Althing.' The request stunned Brendan,

'But I know nothing of your culture, or of Viking political practices.'

'Agreed,' chuckled Hiccup, 'but you can read a situation better than many of the Viking's I know, and your eyes miss little. I need someone I can trust; whose view will not be twisted by prejudice or anger, to watch this king and judge whether he is a danger or not.'

'But surely you…'

'I will be standing beside my father. He has requested my advice and I will need to provide it; if anything to counter the hot blooded suggestions of men like Bold. Besides, they'll be watching me as closely as I'll be watching them; they will have heard rumours that the heir to the Berk tribe is a cripple, so it would prove fruitless to use my usual disguise. Please my friend?' As uneasy as Brendan was about accepting Hiccup's request he found that he couldn't refuse him. Hiccup had saved his life and outstretched the hand of friendship by offering the priest an unconditional place by his hearth. No amount of hoarded silver could repay such generous acts, and so he found himself nodding warily in agreement.

'I'll be there,' Hiccup's grin widened,

'Excellent; now you better find a way in. The hall will be crowded, so I'd suggest sneaking in with the Bog contingent; I'm sure Camicazi won't refuse her dearest…' Brendan shoved him away, fighting the blush that turned his face crimson. He crossed himself to protect his soul from the sinful thoughts Hiccup was alluding too. Hiccup just laughed, before bidding him farewell and limping away, leaving Brendan alone. He now faced the challenge of requesting Camicazi's permission to join the Bogs for the Althing; a terrifying prospect that would have had the Fenrir Wolf fleeing for its life.

For years to come there would be many Viking's that claimed to have witnessed the arrival of King Erik White-bear to the Isle of Berk. He sailed into the harbour to the roaring calls of great horns; on a mighty draaker that dwarfed its peers already docked in the cove's still waters. Scores of oars ploughed through the sea as the ship lurched forwards, its deck crowded with shining warriors in dark mail and faceless helmets; spear points gleaming bright in the sun and shields coated with a multitude of varying colours. A resplendent white bear snarled ferociously on a background of black dyed sails. This was a vessel built for a king. It carried a retinue of warriors who'd earned their status on the field of battle, in the struggling press of the shield wall. All were brave men, skilled and old to war; their arms thick with warrior rings gifted to them by a generous lord; and what a lord of men he was.

Standing amongst the Viking's crowding the cliff's summit to watch, Brendan saw the draaker drift to a halt and a gangplank being lowered to where Stoick the Vast stood waiting, accompanied by the chief's and warriors of all the Archipelago tribes. Hiccup was there, as was Thuggery, the man who had called him a slave on his arrival. He was heir to the Meathead tribe, an apt name Brendan thought wryly. He also spotted Camicazi, her small stature dwarfed by all those in her company except her childhood friend and the woman stood beside her. Narrowing his eyes, Brendan could comprehend the subtle similarities between the two women, from the long flowing locks of gold to their warrior's stance; though how the strange woman expected to fight with such an ample bust was beyond the priest. Other lords and warriors stood in attendance, including the Riders of Berk, surprisingly unaccompanied by their draconian companions.

Another horn boomed across the cove, and after its echoes had finally died a figure stepped from the dark mass aboard the ship and stood on the gangplank, looking out at the people who lived in these harsh borders of the known world. He was a large man with a warriors build, though it had lessened with encroaching age. He was cloaked in the skin of a large white bear that hid his royal frame while the tip of a sheathed sword protruded from beneath folds of pale fur. His hair was steel grey and woven into a warrior's braid, whilst a trimmed beard framed his scared face. He looked with pale eyes, before ceremoniously stepping onto the pier to meet an advancing Stoick. This was Erik White-bear, the crowd whispered, slayer of foes and king of kings.

From his vantage point overlooking the cove, Brendan couldn't hear what words passed between chief and king, though he saw the two men exchanging gifts. Excited chatter buzzed in his ears as the Viking's crammed forward to spy on these visitors from a distant land. He was rather disappointed with the arrival of this eastern king. He hadn't even attempted the Oar-dance that Camicazi had so spectacular accomplished. Losing interest, he trudged through the crowd and back towards the village. He still had to find a way to approach Camicazi about attending the Althing. Traders and craftsman still manned their stalls, uninterested in all the fuss as they sought to fund their living. Children also bounced about him, some pausing in their antics to gawk at the strange White Christ follower, with his foreign tongue and funny robes. Brendan smiled mischievously at them as he passed, before suddenly turning and shouting wildly in his native Gaelic. The children howled in fright and panic as they ran away, only to return moments later squealing in excitement and demanding more. Brendan laughed and repeated the feat twice, this time giving chase like a hunting hound; yelping and baying as the children giggled at his odd behaviour. After he'd given chase for the second time, howling madly like a pursuing hound, he heard a familiar laugh from the village path. Springing to his feet with a smile still plastered on his face, he found Helldora striding towards him, grinning widely,

'I knew we'd turn you mad,'

'What else did you expect after being trapped on a ship with you for so long?'

'Your accusations are unfounded,' she smiled before punching him lightly, 'good to see you haven't gotten yourself killed yet.'

'There's been a few close calls,' he admitted sheepishly,

'Aye, we heard about that,' she said darkly, 'just say the word and Bold will be eunuch before the days end.' He smiled, touched by the woman's protectiveness over him even if her manner of extracting revenge was a tad barbaric. It could prove useful though, remembering the threatening glare Bold had sent him earlier.

'I'll bare that in mind,' he agreed, causing the young Viking to grin devilishly at him.

'That's the spirit,' she applauded, 'you're more of a Viking than you know.' Brendan blanched; he didn't quite know how he felt about that statement. However, his expression was lost on Helldora who grabbed hold of his robes and began to drag him away, raising loud protests from the dissatisfied children he'd been entertaining.

'Come on,' she beckoned to him impatiently,

'Where are we going?'

'The great hall idiot,' she told him, 'the Althing is about to start.' Brendan's eyes widened and he cursed loudly.

'Shit!' he said, his pace quickening. He'd lost track of the passing time, 'I'm supposed to attend.'

'I know,' she chuckled, shaking her head at the Irishman.

'Did Camicazi send you?'

'What?' Helldora exclaimed incredulously, 'do you really think she'd summon you? To the Althing? Where her mother is?' Brendan flushed in embarrassment,

'Well who did?'

'Hiccup sent me,' she said, 'he noticed that you weren't present and asked me to go and find you. The Gods know why he wants a clueless White Christ priest like you to attend.' They hurried down Raven Point's slope, meandering past villagers and homesteads until they arrived at the great hall. Viking's were already herding up the giant stone slabs that led to the door, and the two companion's had to push their way through the throng. The floor was covered in perfumed rushes, giving the smoky gloom of the hall a bitter aroma. Huge columns hewed from ancient oaks stood tall and proud, rearing high into the shadowy confines of the thatched rafters. The hall was crammed with Viking's; each lord or chief of the Archipelago tribes stood in attendance, with their retinues of warriors standing behind them. Colourfully sown banners on tall spears identified their owners.

'Each Viking leader has an insignia,' she whispered quietly at his puzzled expression, 'There's Meathead tribe. The man with one eye is Magadon, their godi, and the tall man beside him is his son Thuggery.'

'He called me a thrall,' Brendan said lightly, still seething about it.

'He's a bit of a bastard,' agreed Helldora good-naturedly, 'but he's good to have around in a scrap. Then we have the Hysterics tribe; they're a mental bunch. The tribe next to them are the Berserks; that kind of explains what they're like. Odin's beard, even the Lava-Louts have come; I wasn't expecting that. They have a long and bitter history with Berk, but it seems Hiccup has again worked his wonders. I wonder what he said to persuade them to attend. The ugly shits next to them are the Basham Oiks.' Brendan glanced in their direction, remembering that Camicazi had mentioned this peculiar tribe during the voyage north, and had hinted at the perverse familiarity they shared with their hogs. Seeing them now, Brendan couldn't disagree with her.

'Looks like they have a new godi,' continued Helldora, 'must have been another feud killing recently. Ah, seems like the Outcast's gave the Althing a miss. That's good, no one can stand that band of treacherous, back stabbing bastards. Then we have the Viking's whose warrior skills have gained such a prominent status that they can afford to be ring-givers. There's Harald the Strong; Ranveig Skull-splitter; Hakon the Hewer; Vigdis Bjarki and Orn the Eagle. They are all mighty warriors whose fame reaches further than even the shores of your homeland priest. All the greatest warriors of the Archipelago's are in this host; you are certainly in the company of heroes.' She sounded impressed, a hard task for Bog, and tugged him along as Brendan felt an odd flutter of shame. He didn't belong here, not in the company of men and women whose exploits outshone any that he could possibly dream of accomplishing.

'Now, here we are,' said Helldora happily, and Brendan found himself suddenly surrounded by women. Some were the seafarers who'd sailed with him and they grinned at his arrival, heckling him for finding trouble so soon whilst reprimanding him for not inviting them to join the brawl. Other's he did not recognise, and they appeared older; dressed in shirts of mail and with arms thick with warrior-rings. They gave him stern but curious glances, having heard tales from their fellow Bogs about the Gaelic priest who managed to blunder his way into their company. Brendan blushed at their scrutiny, and when he looked up he found Camicazi frowning at him. Her lips thinned, her eyes narrowing heatedly when he merely shrugged in way of explanation, but she chose to remain silent, turning away and ignoring his presence. The large breasted woman stood beside Camicazi glanced at him, raised a thick eyebrow and then attempted to dilute away the mischief of his presence by rubbing gently at the hammer amulet hanging from her neck. Convinced that they had a good view of the whole hall, Helldora winked at him,

'That's our godi,' she whispered confidentially, 'Big Bertha; a generous ring-giver and Cami's mother. Can you see the resemblance?'

'Not really,' he replied. It was true; the difference between mother and daughter was astonishing. Whilst Camicazi was short and sprightly; Bertha was well rounded and big boned, and looked like she could out wrestle a bear. No wonder Camicazi felt suffocated by her mother's reputation, he thought sadly. Turning away he began to observe the hall, his eyes skimming over the collection of warriors and godi's until it fell on the banner with a fearsome dragon emblazoned upon it.

'Berk,' muttered Helldora, 'the most ancient tribe among us. The big fellow is Stoick the Vast; he's sought of considered the high chieftain of the Archipelagos, though don't say that in the presence of any other godi. The two men stood behind him are his chief councillors; Spikelout his half-brother and Gobber the Belch, the limbless wonder. The three mailed warriors I'm sure you recognise,' she grinned as he scowled. There, at Stoick's back stood Bold Bjornson, Astrid and another of the Riders of Berk whose name escaped him. They're mail shone in the flickering torch light whilst their expressions were proud and confident. They appeared to be the very essence of the Viking warrior code.

'Those three are Stoick's huscarls; his household guard,' she said, explaining the term, 'I know you're already acquainted with Bold Bjornson, so you've probably met Astrid Hofferson, she's Bold's betrothed.'

'Betrothed?' Brendan spluttered, before turning to gape at the two warriors. They were betrothed. That explained how only Astrid seemed able to calm the Viking paragon the previous day, and why they were often inseparable, constantly aware of the others proximity.

'Aye. I thought everyone knew; it caused quite a stir, as Astrid is considered one of the most formidable young warriors of the future, and many believe Bold to be a hero. The betrothal was expected, though it was rumoured that she was once promised to Hiccup…' Brendan stilled. So was this the cause of the grating indifference between Hiccup and Astrid. Had the Viking woman once been promised to his friend, before the agreement was broken and she was betrothed to another, especially when that man was a rival? He felt a wave of sympathy for his friend,

'Camicazi doesn't like her.'

'Nope,' Helldora mused, 'but that has nothing to do with Hiccup. The rivalry between Cami and Astrid is infamous. They always tried to best the other when we were younger, and once it came to blows. There was no clear winner, so even after all these years they still spit and scowl when their paths cross. Anyway, the last huscarl is Snotlout, Hiccup's cousin. He's a brute, though I've heard he's mellowed since I last had the displeasure of his company. Finally there's your friend Hiccup…' Her voice softened as she spoke his name, causing Brendan to look at her oddly. She was staring at Hiccup with unmasked lust, a passionate look that had the Irishman chortling. He could have fun with this delightful discovery. Hiccup was stood to his father's right. Unlike the Viking's gathered around him he still wore a simple, worn green tunic and his hair hung dishevelled around his face. But they couldn't hide his eyes, which glanced constantly around the large hall, absorbing every movement with shrewd intensity. On seeing Brendan he smirked and rolled his eyes at his friend's tardiness. The Irishman bowed his head in sheepish acknowledgement as Helldora, having recovered from ogling Hiccup, nudged him with a sharp elbow and nodded towards the great hall doors as they began to creak open,

'Now let's see what this king from the east has to say,' she said wryly, spitting into the rushes. Brendan frowned at her behaviour, but decided against commenting when King Erik White-bear entered the hall. Silence descended over the crowd as the bear cloaked Viking marched stridently through the masses, his eyes scrutinising the collection of tribes awaiting him. He had the air of a ruler come to conquer, and a gnarled hand rested on the hilt of a great sword at his belt. Behind him strode a small contingent of the warriors that accompanied him, cloaked in black and dour in look. Their eyes were restless, reading the ring of Viking's as if judging whether any swords would suddenly be drawn to ambush them in a brutal frenzy. As they reached the Althing circle they came to a halt, the banner of the white bear croaking in the soft breeze overhead. The great doors groaned to a close behind them, and silence reigned.

'Greetings King Erik White-bear,' said Stoick in his growling brogue, 'the tribes of the Archipelagos welcome you to our shores. May you enjoy our generosity for the duration of your stay.' White-bear bowed his head in thanks, then gestured with a raised hand for one of his men to come forward. A spindly man strode into the circle. His skin was dark and his long hair was slicked back with perfumed oils. He astutely scanned his audience with shaded eyes, before he bowed low to each of the tribal chiefs in turn, finishing with Stoick,

'Greetings jarls and warriors of the Barbaric Archipelago; tales of your exploits have spread into legend in the lands beyond the sea.' The words fell smoothly from his tongue, a charming smile radiant on his face, 'my name is Sithric Serpent-tongue, and I have been chosen to speak for my king. He would like to thank you for your generous hospitality; as one of the most valued traditions passed down to us by our forefathers your tribe has not been found wanting Stoick the Vast, Jarl of Berk.' Brendan watched Stoick raise a hand to acknowledge the praise. It was a custom upheld by the strictest of Viking law, as a good lord was often judged not just by his feat of arms but by the generosity he offered to those seeking his hospitality.

'Vikings of the Archipelagos,' Sithric moved on, addressing the crowd, 'I have already spoken of the legends you've made. Your exploits are infamous, as traders of rare exports and warriors of brave renowned, songs having reached every port from the Irish Sea to the ice of the northern Baltic. Tales are told of Jarl Stoick's strength; the fortitude of Big Bertha's Bog-Burglars and of enemies who quiver in fear at the coming of One-eyed Magadon; and of course the Riders of Berk need no introduction.' As the man droned on, complimenting every island tribe and seafaring ring-giver of notable fame, Brendan began carefully examining the men gathered around the White-bear. Four stood out from their warrior brethren. He contemplated them silently, wondering who they were and how they had acquired their positions by the king's ear.

'You speak generously, Sithric Snake-tongue' Stoick had interrupted the younger Viking's flow of compliments, 'but this Althing was called so that all could hear the proposal your king wanted to make?' His tone was firm. He wished this business concluded quickly, and the White-bear gone from Berk. Better to get to the heart of the matter than see the day go past in unnecessary talk. White-bear's envoy paused and glanced at his king, who inclined his head slightly in acceptance, eyes still fixed on Stoick.

'My apologies Stoick of Berk, I have a habit of allowing my tongue to run away with me,' commented Sithric regretfully, beginning to pace around the ring of warriors, 'it is a proposal that brings my king to your shores. King Erik White-bear is a great man; the breaker of shield-walls; a lord of the waves and a warrior feared by his enemies. Norsemen, Danes, Swedes, Rus, Saxons and Celts have all perished beneath his blade. He has fought dragons and monsters, defeated trolls and giants. He even slew the mythical white bear of the northern wastes in the mountains of ice and fire. He can lead many spears into battle; full many ships with men sworn to die for him. He is a ring-giver of no equal…'

'The White-bear sounds like a mighty man indeed,' interjected One-Eyed Magadon bluntly, 'but that does not explain why he is here?'

'It is customary to show your guests courtesy and respect, Magadon of the Meathead tribe,' Sithric chided swiftly, continuing with his prose before any voice rose to argue, 'Erik White-bear holds unrivalled power and influence in the East. No petty king has the resources to usurp his throne so his lands know peace. This has enabled my king to turn his attention to an issue that has plagued him for many years. An issue of what is to be done with the fate of the Barbaric Archipelagos.' His statement caused a flutter of murmuring to rush through the listening Vikings. Brendan noted that the faces surrounding him had turned from curious to sour.

'I see no issue,' stated Stoick slowly, 'our islands prosper with every new season and our seas team with traders and merchants seeking rare commerce. A fresh generation of warriors emerges to replace those lost during our wars with the dragons. These shores know relative peace, free from raids and war that afflicted us for so long. Our islands thrive. The fate of these islands are of no concern to a king from the east, however great they may be. It never has…'

'Until now,' said one of the men standing beside the White-bear. He was tall and lean, with long raven hair and a beard trimmed neatly along his jawline. He stepped boldly into the circle, drawing every eye, 'my name is Jarl Einar Gold-bearer, brother to the White-bear. What you say is true Jarl Stoick; the fortunes of your islands have indeed improved since they were freed from dragon raids.' His eyes flickered to Hiccup before changing course, 'for centuries now your tribes have lived segregated from each other; with your own separate histories and customs. But with the passing of time comes the need for change.'

'What is this talk of change?' asked Harald the Strong. No man liked change; they often feared it. Change meant the Norn's were at work.

'Change for the better,' spoke up Snake-tongue, 'our king has sailed west with an offer. An offer for the tribes of the Barbaric Archipelagos to accept him as their rightful and chosen king. He would be a wise and noble lord, a great ring-giver who would grant you much wealth if you will swear an oath to serve and draw your swords for him. Erik White-bear is a king of kings, and your tribes would be fortunate to accept his rule.'

The sour murmurs a moment ago were quickly displaced by angry snorts of contempt from the local Vikings. These men dare suggest that the Barbaric Archipelagos needed a king? There had never been a king of these islands; not since the dawn of Viking exploration arrived in these northern waters. Brendan looked about him, and saw each face contorted with building rage. Helldora spat contemptuously into the rushes; Camicazi looked ready to draw her swords; the tempers of lords and warriors alike flared and Hiccup remained still, his bright eyes watching their guests unblinkingly, though a small frown marred his features. White-bear mirrored the Berk heir, watching coolly as the wave of anger caused by his arrogant demand washed over him. His warriors remained still; their swords were near at hand and they would die like warriors if a feverish rage overcame their host. They would join Odin in Valhalla and feast in the God's hall if they died with a sword in their hand. A youth standing beside the white cloaked king flinched at the furious reaction, his alabaster skin twitching nervously.

'You spoke of the White-bear as our rightful king,' came a voice that broke through the growls. Its tone was firm, and it quelled those around him into silence. Everyone turned to stare towards Hiccup, who was staring imperiously at this eastern king, 'there has never been a king of the Archipelagos, so how can he have a claim to a royal seat that does not exist?'

'But it does exist,' came the gravelly sound of Erik White-bears voice, as deep a growl as the beast he had slain. He approached the centre of the circle, his eyes on Hiccup, 'you must be the famous dragon rider, Hiccup of Berk; you've not stopped watching us since we arrived, have you boy? Are you weighing up the dangers we pose to your people?' The king squinted, his vision falling on Hiccup's prosthetic limb before saying derisively, 'who thought that the man behind the legend was a mere crippled boy.' Camicazi growled at the insult, though Hiccup checked her with a look,

'I'm proud that I fulfil your expectations my lord,' he replied calmly, and Brendan was astounded at how calm Hiccup could remain, especially when being insulted by a man who wished to claim his homeland as king. He glimpsed the varying reactions of the Berk Vikings to the insult. Stoick glowered; Snotlout looked shocked; Bold smirked and Astrid's eyes narrowed, 'but I stand by what I said; there is no claim to these islands.' White-bear stared coldly down at the younger Viking,

'For once boy, you are mistaken,' he said loudly, commanding the attention of all those swarming the hall, 'tell me, have you heard the Saga of the Magnusson Brothers?' There was a confused muttering. Brendan nudged Helldora impatiently, unaccustomed to the tale

'The Saga of the Magnusson Brothers?'

'An old saga,' she whispered frowning, 'about the three Viking brothers who discovered these islands. Every Viking here will have grown up with this tale; what's the White-bear playing at?' Brendan shrugged, though he had a vague idea that the source of the king's claim stemmed from this ancient saga.

'All the Viking's present have heard that old story,' shouted Ranveig Skull-splitter, 'what does it have to do with this farce?' Snake-tongue answered for his king. He was a skilled weaver of tales and a man well versed in the oral traditions of his Nordic culture;

'It is the source of my king's claim. The saga sings of the three brothers who fled with their people from their Norse homeland to escape a blood-feud that had descended into a bloody war. They ventured into the unknown seas to the north, to the border of the icy wastes. Their exploration was fruitful and they founded a colony on the islands they discovered; these islands. Now the three brothers came from an age of petty kings, so they declared the eldest as king, to lead their people in their grim fight for survival. He died shortly after, with no heir from his seed to replace him. No one ever did, for it was rumoured to be a cursed title. The second brother raised a warrior band and returned to his homeland, where he slaughtered his family's enemies and took over a throne that his descendants still occupy to this day. The third brother stayed with the remnants of his people and settled these islands, where once your tribal chiefs could still trace their lineage to his blood. But his seed ran cold decades ago, and his blood has thinned; no tribal chief can claim him as their ancestors. Only the blood of the second brother has continued; forging a great dynasty of Viking lords. That blood belongs to King Erik White-bear.' A sceptical hush fell over the listening Vikings. Could what Snake-tongue spoke of be true. Kinsmen exchanged uneasy glances in the silence, but it was Bertha, chief of the Bog's whose voice broke it,

'He bases his claim on an old skalds tale,' she said mockingly. Jarl Einar glared back, his eyes dancing with scorn,

'Hold your tongue woman,' he sneered in contempt, 'do not interrupt the talk of men again!' Brendan shook his head,

'Fool,' he muttered as fury bubbled around him. Viking warrior women were a rare find in most of the Viking lands. In Jarl Einar's ignorant homeland women were expected to run the hearth and households in the absence of their husbands, leaving the conduct of war to men. But life was hard on the harsh boundaries of the world, and here everyone was expected to play their part, men and women alike. The Bogs seethed at the dismissal of their chief's presence, and Bertha seemed taken aback by the insult. Even Astrid stiffened at the slight to her gender. But the hiss of a sword been drawn dulled every other sound around it, and Brendan's eyes widened as Camicazi gave a guttural snarl, her temper roaring to life.

The tension in the hall hung at a blades point as the sword began to slither free. If blood was spilled then the consequences would be catastrophic for both sides. There would be no victor in such a bloodbath, and it would only end when Camicazi's body twitched in its death throes. Brendan realised this at the same time as Hiccup, who had stepped forward and opened his mouth to shout for his childhood friend to halt her impulsive action. He would be too late, the priest realised, for Camicazi's sword was almost free and its bearer looked ready to pounce. Brendan's mind went blank and he didn't know what instinct forced him to move. Maybe it was his Christian piety at not wishing to see blood spilt, but a nagging voice told him that he just didn't want to see the Bog heiress dead. So he moved.

His hand clamped around Camicazi's arm, bringing it to a stop and forcing the sword back into its sheath. As Camicazi paused in astonishment that anyone would dare lay their hands on her, he gripped her shoulder with his other hand to stop her from struggling free and brought his mouth close to her ear,

'No,' he whispered firmly. Camicazi struggled for a moment, attempting to loosen his hold. But Brendan was displaying an inner strength that was rarely seen in public; a strength that enabled him to draw the chord of his war-bow, and he held her determinedly in an unmoveable iron grip. He was aware of the flaw in his action, knowing that if he released her then she would most likely kill him as well as the eastern nobleman. The Irishman failed to notice the stunned expressions of those around him, including the incredulous look Big Bertha gave him at his sheer audaciousness. After another attempt at prising herself free, Camicazi finally relented with a snarl of frustration. She was breathing heavily from her attempts at escaping Brendan's hold and the consuming fury that still rumbled beneath the surface. Her eyes burned into Jarl Einar, but she remained silent; a hard task when the object of her ire was returning it with a disdainful smirk. Hiccup gave Brendan a relieved look brimming with gratitude, releasing a held breath at how narrowly an escalation had been avoided.

'That priest has got more stones than a herd of bulls,' murmured a Bog warrior in Helldora's ear, who could only nod weakly in reply, still gawping at Brendan. White-bear had watched the scene with a stony expression, indifferent to the danger that Camicazi posed to his life but visibly intrigued by the sudden appearance of a White Christ priest amongst this pagan gathering. One Norse warrior stood at the old king's back relaxed, the fingers that twitched towards his sword hilt going unnoticed by the Viking's around him.

'Can we continue?' the King said in a bored voice. Stoick gave him a hardened look,

'It is considered unwise to insult any of the tribes of these islands, let alone a warrior such as Bertha of the Bog-Burglars,' he told him starkly,

'Indeed,' countered White-bear gruffly, 'the women of our homeland are not known for their martial prowess. It is unfamiliar for us to find so many clad in the style of fighting men. My brother meant no disrespect to the Bog tribe; he is a hot tempered man, but he meant nothing by his ill-judged words. I will swear on my honour as king.' Stoick considered them for a moment longer, before looking at Bertha. The Bog Chief still appeared unhappy with the insult, but her daughters barely avoided venture into a blood bath had enabled common sense to upend her own rising temper. After she'd grunted her consent, the leaders of the Althing returned to the matters at hand.

'No Viking has tried to claim this throne you talk of,' Stoick informed them, 'we have no tradition of kingship here, and so no custom to determine whether a man should be king.'

'There is no custom needed,' said Snake-tongue, 'only King Erik and his son, the Prince Rurik carry the blood of the Magnusson brothers. There are no other men who could claim the kingship.'

'If the royal seat exists,' interrupted One-eyed Magadon, looking grim and unconvinced. He mirrored the scepticism of the Viking's surrounding him. The alabaster skinned youth looked up fretfully; Prince Rurik was uncomfortable at being mentioned in this debate.

'It does,'

'But who chose the White-bear to be our king,' probed Orn the Eagle,

'It is his right!' growled Jarl Einar,

'A _right _based on a legend from an ancient saga; nothing more,' said Bertha, repeating her earlier announcement, 'there is no seat of kingship in the western seas.'

'Who else could rule here?' asked Snake-tongue, 'Erik White-bear knows no fear; his people have known peace under his kingship and his enemies quiver in fear at his name. He is a hero in battle and has led his people to victory against the Danes, Saxons, Irish…'

'But not the Scots,' sneered Camicazi, her cackle immediately hushing the hall. Brendan gulped when every Viking looked in their direction as the Bog heiress continued, 'The Scots had no such fear when they faced the White-bear.' There was a rumble of confusion from the crowd. Most of the Archipelago Viking's knew nothing of the White-bears disastrous war against the wild tribes of the Scots. But Camicazi's statement had a visible effect on the visiting king and his retinue. Hands fell to sword hilts as the old king paled, his eyes bulging. No one dared mention the Scots in his hearing; not since he'd fled the battle with his army routed, leaving his eldest son slaughtered by blue skinned, highland savages. He could still see their banner of a flint coloured sword entwined by swirling bands flying above the rampaging horde of woad decorated warriors.

His gnarled fist slowly drifted down and traced a scarred finger along the blades whalebone pommel, seeking the last remaining vestiges of calm in a storm of fury that threatened to over spill. The glare he levelled at Camicazi threatened instant retribution at her careless words. Camicazi stared back, hatred and disdain radiating from her stance. Her own hand was still clenched around her sword, with only Brendan's steadfast hold stopping her from leaping at this arrogant king. The priest turned towards where the Berk contingent stood, beseeching Hiccup to intervene with the mess his childhood friend had made of this Althing, but he was ignored. Hiccup was at his father's side, speaking urgently into the giant's ear and gesturing wildly at the scene unfolding before them. Brendan saw Bold Bjornson say something that caused the Berk heir to glare at him, but Hiccup's response was lost in the thunderous noise.

'You yelp loudly little girl,' said Erik White-bear warningly, 'like a puppy. Do you know what we do to disobedient puppy's that yelp too loudly; we drown them.' Camicazi remained smiling, her mind barely processing the veiled threat. Brendan marvelled at her fearlessness; here was a woman who bowed to no man, king or not. His grip tightened on her shoulders as she twitched in anticipation, her heart begging to be let loose. A united growl from the warrior women behind him showed that the Bogs would spring forward to support their heiress, though her mother held up a restraining hand and ordered them to cool heated tempers.

'Did you yelp when the Scots…' A hand closed around her mouth, cutting off the intended insult.

'Don't,' begged Brendan hastily, realising that his proximity to Camicazi would ensure certain death if the situation escalated. His intervention didn't last long because Camicazi bit his hand, causing him to withdraw the bleeding appendage with a curse,

'How dare you…' she snarled, her eyes blazing as they finally turned away from White-bear and focused on the unfortunate priest,

'You bit me,' he squeaked incredulously,

'I'll bloody kill…'

'Take the priest and your lovers quarrel elsewhere,' called the White-bear disdainfully. Camicazi paled at the implication, ignoring her mother's stern frown and finally succeeded to prise herself away from Brendan's startled grip. Now free, she stepped towards the king with her hand darting towards her sword. Two black cloaked warriors stepped between her and their king, obviously the White-bears chosen champions; one of boar like stature and the other was the man whose hand had previously twitched towards his sword at the first signs of trouble. They stood in front of White-bear glaring at the approaching Bog with looks designed to deter any rash attack. She ignored them, and they immediately settled into battle stances with practised ease. However, no Viking born could ignore the roar that erupted over the inflamed atmosphere,

'SILENCE!' Camicazi came to abrupt halt, as did the two warriors who faced her. All eyes turned to see the mighty figure of Stoick the Vast advancing into the centre of the circle. He stopped between them and sent each combatant are nerve shattering glare that had Brendan wincing at the intensity of it. As Camicazi and her two opponents grudgingly backed away, Stoick turned to face the White-bear, 'this is my hall; no blood shall be spilled in it, not by your swords. Now listen wisely, my son wishes to speak.' Hiccup creaked forward,

'In Viking custom, the title of king can be inherited, chosen by his peers or won by feat of arms. A man who believes he is worthy of such a title must be a leader of men. He must be strong in war, cunning against his enemies and be able to inspire bravery in battle. A king must be a generous ring-giver, and capable of upholding not just his own but also the honour of his followers. I believe all gathered in here can agree that Erik White-bear fulfils these ideals.' He bowed his head to the king, honouring him. There was a ripple of disgust from the local Vikings, who thought it ill-advised for the heir of a tribe as old as Berk to bow to a foreign king. Stood on the margins, Brendan hoped that his friend knew what he was doing. But Hiccup was not finished, for his features turned grim and he did not falter,

'But as a guest in another lord's hall, that man should respect the traditions of those whose table he feasts at. Now we have no king, and the only evidence for the contrary derives from an ancient legend centuries old, so your insistences that the White-bear has a right to this inheritance are futile.' Hiccup held up his hand, deterring anyone from interrupting him and silencing Snake-tongue before the oily man could utter a sound. Instead he looked at the old king, 'In my eyes, you have two available roads to take. You can either follow the path of negotiation, where you leave us to debate the validity of your claim to this kingship for the remainder of the Althing. This allows the Archipelago tribes to judge for themselves how suited Erik White-bear is to rule them. The second option is this; you can follow the path of war, but before you make any hasty decision let me offer you some advice. You may be a great leader of men; your men may have known victory on the field of battle, but they have never fought Vikings like us. We've survived harsh climates, a hostile environment and a war with dragons. Our tribes abound with heroes. Whether they are Lava-louts, Hysterics, Bashem Oiks, Beserks, Meatheads, Hooligans,' he paused to grace the women surrounding Brendan with a winning smile, determined to honour every tribe in attendance, 'or the fabled shieldmaiden's of the Bog-Burglar tribe; we have cultivated these wild shores since our first ancestors settled here. We have all lived through war, been born into it. If you decide to claim this throne by conquest, then you will have one mighty battle on your hands.'

Hiccup's voice was loud and clear, as was the threat he made. Pride swelled through the ranks of Vikings, pride in their history and prowess, all inspired by Hiccup's speech. Bold Bjornson scowled broodingly at his rival; Stoick looked proudly at his son; Gobber the Belch roared his approval; Camicazi smirked at her childhood friend's performance and Astrid just watched on with a slight smile edging her lips, her usually cold eyes shining. To Brendan his friend stood glowing with purpose. There stood a young man who possessed the virtues of a future king. His regal speech certainly had an effect on the White-bear, who understood that the time to press the issue had passed. He nodded grudgingly,

'You are wise beyond your years, young one,' he concluded, 'I have made my case, and will leave it to the judgement of the Archipelago tribes.'

'You have our thanks, my lord,' replied Hiccup generously, 'we will gather again on the morrow to discuss the legitimacy of your claim and make our decision. We shall meet with you the following day to announce it. Meanwhile, your followers are welcome to enjoy our hospitality. There will be feasting aplenty, a time to swap tales of courage and swear oaths of brotherhood.' The White-bear accepted the offer with a bow of his white crowned head. Cheering erupted across the hall, echoing off the tall columns to reach the high rafters. A lavish feast was a joyful prospect for all Vikings, a people who loved to live their brutal lives to their fullest. Soon the hall began to empty as the White-bears followers swiftly left to return to their ship and the locals filtered after them to prepare for days of feasting. Camicazi left quickly, without uttering a word to anyone, although Brendan noticed Helldora following closely behind after a quiet word of encouragement from Bertha, who looked furious at her daughter's reckless conduct. As the tribal chiefs disappeared to discuss the Althing in greater detail, the priest pushed through the dispersing Viking's to where his friend still stood unmoving in the hall's centre. Hiccup had his eyes closed, and appeared unaware of the Irishman's approach,

'I hate public speaking,' Hiccup muttered softly, visibly shuddering.

'You can really tell,' he said sarcastically, 'it's not like you have a flare for it at all.' Hiccup scoffed, shoving him away playfully. Brendan laughed,

'You handled Camicazi well,'

'Until she bit me,' he growled, raising his hand where Hiccup saw a line of bloodied bite marks embedded in the reddening skin,

'Another battle scar in your feud,' joked the blacksmith with a chuckle, 'but you have my thanks all the same. She acted rashly and would have paid for it with her life if you hadn't intervened.'

'I don't think she'll see it that way,'

'I'll have a word with her,' Hiccup offered kindly, 'but that'll have to wait. I want to know what you think of this Erik White-bear, his warriors and their outlandish proposal before the Althing meets tomorrow. We will need to step carefully with this king…'

'As keen eyed as the White Christ priest is; it would be useless to try and gauge the White-bear's motives. That old bastard is as crafty as a fox and as slippery as a Byzantine eunuch; what he misses his followers do not. He likes to dangle men in a web of deceit. Many men see a fading old man and so easily misjudge him.' The two friends turned to find a tall warrior dressed in black emerging from the disbanding crowd. He was the young man who has stepped forward to face Camicazi. He had the confident gait of a privileged warrior and the smile that adorned his face was friendly and disarming. He complimented Hiccup as he neared them, 'that was a well delivered speech my friend.'

'I try my best,' Hiccup said coolly,

'Indeed,' replied the warrior, still smiling despite their reserved attitude, 'you made Snake-tongue look amateur; and believe me he can weave tales better than any skald.' The Berk heir nodded his thanks. Brendan stayed silent, watching this peculiar man standing completely at ease under their scrutiny.

'So…' said Hiccup awkwardly, and the warrior laughed.

'There's no need for formalities. I merely sought the company of the infamous Rider of Berk.' He noticed Hiccup cringe at the name and his smile grew wider. He swiftly changed tact, 'I'm also intrigued by the presence of a White Christ priest in a region that so fervently reveres the old Gods. What brings you here friend?'

'Stupidity,' Brendan guessed,

'Even so,' the warrior laughed, 'You speak in a tongue of the Gaels and I'm sure you have a tale to tell; I'd wager a hoard that it involves that fiery women you tried to subdue. The feast will begin soon and I'm absolutely famished; how about we share it over a flask of Berk's finest mead. What say you Rider?' Hiccup and Brendan exchanged a look before smiling hesitantly. The black cloaked warrior would make good company during the coming feast, and his high position in the White-bears inner circle of trusted men could prove a useful source.

'Agreed,' said Hiccup with a smile, 'but what's your name?'

'Ragnar,' replied the warrior, 'Ragnar Muninn-born, champion sword-bearer in the White-bears war-band.'

'Champion?'

'Aye,' smiled Ragnar as the trio began to walk towards the hall's looming doorway, 'an honour granted by the White-bear himself.'

'How did you acquire that title?' inquired Brendan,

'It is a long story,' Ragnar said, then appeared to read their minds 'let us feast. Besides, what better way to gage the White-bears character than from a man who stands beside him in the shield-wall.' An uneasy shiver ran down the two friend's spines, but whether it was due to the cold northern climates or from Ragnar Muninn-born's furtive smile they could not tell.


End file.
